


The Kindness of Strangers

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [28]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward cuddles, Gen, Homecoming, Sharing Clothes, Tropey the Wonder Trope, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 26,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Athos stared at him. "Maybe I have questions of my own."  Because he did, so many.</em>
</p><p> <em>Aramis' chin came up in challenge. "I'm not good at answering."</em></p><p> <em>"Try."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Am I the devil, then?"

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place four or five weeks after The Way the World Ends 3, to clarify chronology.

One army camp looked much like another, Aramis had found. In truth, it was easier to pick through the tents and picket lines and sentries of the Spanish, where his face was his first, best passport. Even so, there were ways. The trick, the most important trick, was to look like he belonged, to look like he had someplace to go. Aramis wound through a line of supply wagons, pulling his hood up one more time against the wind and the miserable late autumn drizzle. He turned around a heap of tarpaulin clad sacks and spied more regular tents, one flying a blue banner, its colours faded soft and sad in the dreary light. His quarry was almost in view.

***

Athos swore to himself when he heard the grumble of thunder. It was far too late in the season for bivouacing in the field. He'd argued with  Treville about it, several times, but the Minister for War had been immovable. Rain dripped steadily from the brim of his hat and seeped insidiously through the wool of his cloak. He turned a corner and saw a figure swathed in dark fabric about to walk inside Athos' own tent. Tall enough for Porthos, but too slight, even under the muffling cloak. His other men knew better than to go in there without invitation... Athos slipped up behind him, hand on sword-hilt. The other heard him anyway, spinning around even as a gust of water-laden wind blew off the hood.

Aramis?     

" _Diable_!" Athos said, setting his hands to Aramis' shoulders. The other man flicked his hands away and stepped back, eyeing him warily.

 "Am I the devil, then?" he asked, hands half raised.

 "Where the hell have you been?" Athos asked.

 Aramis cocked his head. "Around and about."  He hesitated.

Athos had plenty of fodder for nightmares, these days. One last week had involved Marsac, the deserter from the regiment, thin as a starved whippet and twitchy about doors... he was no Joseph or Scipio, but the source of it was no mystery to him. Where had Aramis been, what had he done, that he walked so lightly now?  Why had he disappeared in the first place?  Athos tried again.

 "Why are you here?"

 "I was... looking for answers."

Athos spread one arm out in sardonic invitation, which was unfortunate as the cold drizzle found an opening in his sleeve. Aramis' eyes flicked to Athos' waist, revealed by the opening in the cloak - to the weapons belt buckled over his sash of Musketeer blue. He touched one wrist where a rain-drizzled ribbon was wrapped around his glove and seemed to steady.

 "I'd been beaten," Aramis stated. "And my hands were bound."

 That covered several instances in their colourful careers.

 "Which time?"

 Aramis looked frustrated, and a little appalled. "How... many...?"

 Athos stared at him. "Maybe I have questions of my own."  Because he did, so many.

 Aramis' chin came up in challenge. "I'm not good at answering."

  _"Try."_

 "What do you think I _owe_ you?" demanded Aramis.

 "Where. Did. You. Go?"

 "I'd been _beaten_."

 "Why do you keep saying that?!"

 "Because that's where it started!"

 "Where _what_ started?"

 "Who _are_ you?!" Aramis hissed, shoving Athos.

 "I am Athos," he snarled, pushing back until Aramis' shoulders hit the corner post of the tent.

 "That's the name of a mountain!"

 "And yet, it is my name."  He ducked his head so that their foreheads touched. "It is too wet to talk out here. Come inside."

 ***

 Aramis hovered uncertainly near the tent-flap. Easy enough to exit quickly if he needed to, and he'd lay odds he could work through a camp this dark and wet even with an alarm raised, should the Captain prove unchancy.

 Yet the man seemed sincere, turning his back and shedding outer clothes as he stalked to a chest and retrieved a handful of linen, mopping his face. When he started to pull off his wet shirt Aramis turned away, sparing the privacy of a habitually modest man and... _oh_.

 "Thank the Good God," he breathed. The Captain turned inquiringly. "You're Athos."  

 The Captain shut his eyes, and opened them. He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. "Yes," he said, "I am."

 "It is really quite complicated to explain."

 ***

 Porthos reached the command tent about midnight. _Someone_ had to walk the bounds and make sure the sentries were awake. Even in the pouring wet their camp had been roaring - his feelings about hitting the drink the night before battle had changed significantly since he'd been a ranker, and he had to wonder when soldiers started looking so damned _young_. There was light there still: Athos also kept late hours. He pulled the tent flap aside, sending water sheeting down his arm, and shook like a dog as he stepped inside.

 Athos sat at the desk, still working at papers under one hanging lamp. He put one finger to his lips as Porthos took off his dripping hat and worked at his cloak. Company?  Porthos glanced at the screen which shielded a corner of the tent, and the cot Athos used sometimes in favour of seeking a real bed.

 Aramis was in it, sleeping.

  _Huh_.  

The man looked tired, sprawled on the cot like a marionette with cut strings. He had lost flesh since the last sighting, and there was the vivid stripe of a recently healed wound on his cheek. His hair was longer; his moustache and beard neat. It was something. Porthos pulled off his head-scarf and ran a hand over his scalp. A drip fell from his sleeve and, suddenly and naturally as a cat opening its eyes or a snake pulling back its head, his old friend had a pistol in his hand, his eyes heavy with sleep and utterly intent.

Aramis was pointing a gun at him.

 "This is startin' to get hurtful," Porthos rumbled, and reached for the toggles of his armoured coat. He was... tired... of chasing his friend.

 After a breath, the gun disappeared and Aramis sat up in the blankets, rubbing tousled hair away from his face. He was wearing Athos' third-best shirt, Porthos noted, the one with a brown spot on the collar and a rough darn on the left shoulder-seam. "You must forgive me, messieurs," said Aramis. "I have been a little... lost."  He sat still on the cot as Athos pulled up two chairs, looking back and forth between them. And the _look_ in his black eyes: Porthos had seen Aramis in many moods - merry, drunk, intent, angry, wicked, heart-broken, coolly considering... he'd never seen him be polite before. Not to him. And that _was_  hurtful. ' _Messieurs?'  Really?_

Athos sat and steepled his fingers. "How much do you have?" he asked elliptically. (Porthos would cheerfully add the label of 'infuriating' to his Captain, also.)

 "Perhaps a year," answered Aramis. He tilted one hand back and forth, "Give or take a few weeks."

 Athos hummed in his throat. "You have been missing for two."

 Aramis shrugged. "I have bad days."  His hand drifted to worry at something on his left wrist that was hidden by the loose shirt cuff. And maybe Porthos was tired, but the pair of them could be speaking Greek right now and he'd get more useful information out of them.

 Athos said then, "When I first joined the regiment I was a disgrace to the colours - too deep in my cups to take much notice of my fellow soldiers."  He frowned in disapproval. "So I cannot honestly recount the first time I met you. My earliest clear recollection (and I have no idea why, for I was extremely drunk at the time) is of being walked back and forth across the Pont de la Tournelle, my arm draped over the shoulders of a fellow adorned with an overly laced shirt, a black eye, and a red silk stocking which smelled like a brothel, arguing Catullus."

 "'A thousand kisses and a hundred more'?" asked Aramis, face blandly innocent.

 "Nothing so romantic."

 Porthos still didn't understand the game, but he could follow Athos' lead. "I climbed up to the King's Musketeers from the infantry. Still learning the ropes of horse-riding and that - didn't rightly feel at home. Anything I could do to look hard in front of the other soldiers, I was up for it. So when one of the marksmen," he gestured to Aramis, "said he could shoot apples off a man's head, I was the one to volunteer. Did it, too, ten in a row. Then the Captain put his foot down."

 Aramis' eyes flicked to the side, to Athos, who answered, "He means Treville."

 And, what?  ... _oh_. "You don't remember who I am," said Porthos in wonderment.

 "I am sorry," answered Aramis, his brows quirking together. "This must be very difficult for you."

 Porthos lunged for him then, risking the hidden pistol, and wrapped his arms around Aramis' ribs, who squeaked like a mouse and then patted his back gingerly. "Uh, there there. There. You are very wet I notice. Breathing is a good thing... I cannot but recommend it."  

 Then the slighter man pulled back a little. "Wait. Wait. Were there... melons?"

 "Only on my birthday."

"Well then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you he'd be fine. For a given value of fine. He's among friends now, that's good, right?
> 
> **
> 
> "You don't remember who I am," said Porthos - This isn't a shocking swerve: I've been dropping hints since "Scars" and even the first installment, "Just Hanging Around", was written with this plot point in mind. I've been so torn... on the one hand I knew there was a Luke-I-am-your-father moment coming (and how often do we get that, eh?), but on the other, since nobody guessed early I had the nagging feeling that it's just that I'm crap at foreshadowing and writing in general. So, er, if it was good for you, please let me know. (If you don't feel strongly about it either way, that's fine. Thanks for sticking with me!)


	2. "What."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll go back to chaptered format for a bit, since these parts are closely linked. 
> 
> *
> 
> If any of the names or places mentioned have any basis in actual geography or history, I will let you know. Otherwise, assume they were made up.

D’Artagnan trudged through the grey dawn with his saddle bag over his shoulder, still jittery from fighting met in the scouting party he'd led. "Morning, Porthos," he said as he passed the other musketeer eating his breakfast in front of the tent they shared. "Morning, Aramis."  
  
"Good morning," said Aramis.   
  
D'Artagnan was covered in mud, sticky and chill. He was pretty sure he had a clean shirt in there. Mostly clean. He'd have to stick with the doublet with the torn sleeve though, how embarrassing, not a good look in front of the men -   
  
He walked out of the tent. Aramis lifted a spoon in salute.   
  
"Good morning, d'Artagnan," said Porthos.   
  
"Good morning, d'Artagnan," echoed Aramis.   
  
D'Artagnan ducked back inside. He unbuckled the straps of his shoulder armour and placed it carefully on its stand, then wiped his face with a damp rag. He came out.   
  
"What," he said.

Aramis looked up. “I think the sky is clearing, don't you?” He sat on d'Artagnan's camp stool, long legs stretched out, muffled in a dark cloak against the damp air. Porthos leaned over and looked into Aramis’ near-empty bowl. Silently, he poured half of his remaining gruel into it. Aramis cocked his eyebrow but dipped in his spoon, eating neatly and quickly.    

“Where have you been?” d'Artagnan tried.

Aramis smiled slightly. “Around and about; here and there.”   

D’Artagnan flushed.

Porthos put down his bowl and stood. “A word, d'Artagnan,” he said quietly, leading the younger man off. The conversation took several minutes, and involved much arm waving. Finally, “Right then,” said Porthos cheerfully, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder as they came back, “I'm heading out.” He almost did the same to Aramis, but instead lightly, hesitantly touched him on the wrist. “I would take it as a favour if you stayed here today.”

Aramis shrugged. “As you like,” he said calmly. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Skirmishing support, for the expedition to take back the bridge at Saint-Martin,” said Porthos easily. “We'll be back by dinner time.”

The other frowned. “If you think it appropriate…”

Porthos grinned. “Ain’t nobody dying today.” He paced away, bawling at the men peeling out of their tents.

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. “Get some rest,” he said gently. “D'Artagnan. I won't rabbit.” He smiled crookedly. “Today.”           

+++

D'Artagnan turned uneasily, the ropes of the bed-frame creaking and sagging under his weight. Finally he crawled out of his blankets, still bleary, squinting into the pallid noonday sun. Aramis still sat there, wrapped in the cloak, the only colour in him a streak of healing red along his cheek. His eyes were shut, and he breathed deeply.

“Why ‘today’?” d'Artagnan croaked, his throat dry from sleep. He ran fingers through his straight hair and shook himself.

Aramis cracked one eye open. “Never explain the joke,” he said, smiling slightly. There was a faint twist to his words, a lilt at the terminals that d'Artagnan didn't remember him doing before.

“Were you living in Italy? Is that where you picked up the accent?”

Aramis didn't answer.

“What's the problem with the expedition to Saint-Martin, then?”

The other stirred, opening his eyes. “It just seems an excessive amount of force to take an empty outpost.” He shrugged. “I’m not privy to your military councils. No doubt there's something I've missed.”

“Saint-Martin isn't empty. I saw fighting near there last night.”

Aramis shook his head, eyes shutting. “That was Ortega’s men retreating to the winter lines.”

 _So you're privy to the Spanish military councils then?_  thought d'Artagnan and bit it back. Porthos had told him not to poke. He was beginning to find this difficult. 

"Or perhaps it was a misunderstanding," added Aramis, looking straight at d'Artagnan and smiling sweetly. "My mistake." The sullen clouds started another dreary spatter of rain on their heads. 

 “Why did you come back?”

“You ask a lot of questions, boy.”

“Why _now?”_

Aramis pulled his hood over his face and shut his eyes against the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, some of the deliberate clues. I feel I was playing reasonably fairly.
> 
> Some of these were ambiguous - not indicative on their own, but I wrote them that way because of the underlying issue.
> 
> \- In "Scars", Aramis reveals the scarring from what must have been a serious head wound. That's also the installment where his explanation for some existing scars (shoulder and side) don't match what he told Adele Bassett in 1.01. It's ambiguous, because he could have been setting up the joke about the farmer's daughter, but he also completely blanked on Milady's hanging scar. It's _possible_ that d'Artagnan didn't gossip like a fratbro about this very distinguishing mark on that hot and scary chick who's trying to kill them (more likely Athos didn't mention the hanging unless asked a direct question). It's also _possible_ , when Milady rescued Aramis at the end of Season 2, bare throat and all, that he was too flustered and busy to notice it. But - the scar is very visible to _her_. This was the moment when Milady went 'Huh?' and started paying more attention to his verbal mis-steps.
> 
> \- In "The Romantic Hero Type" Milady makes a clear allusion to the Cardinal - an elderly gentleman of a religious persuasion, who had advice on large-scale sabotage. Aramis' response isn't, 'Glad he's dead,' or, 'Dang, never thought I'd miss him,' but assumes that the gentleman is alive. Incidentally, when he blinks when Milady says, 'You were a soldier' - that wasn't because he was surprised she asked him for advice, it's because she revealed something of his past. Also, when he says he should be more bothered, it's because he figured he was probably Spanish (going by his appearance), so this is unpatriotic of him.
> 
> \- In "Question and Answer" and "Care and Feeding" Aramis does have clear reactions to emotional triggers tied to his past: he didn't like it when Milady touched his jaw and said 'Poor gallant Aramis' (like the queen did when he first fell in love with her), and he freaked out over a crying baby when he'd been in the middle of a fight. Both times, he either seemed bewildered or admitted that he didn't know why he did that.
> 
> \- In Venice 3, talking to Porthos and d'Artagnan, he didn't admit he went to Douai, and he didn't admit he _didn't_ go to Douai. He did ask a lot of leading questions ('Perhaps you were looking in the wrong place?' 'Have you been following me?') And he made a reference to the last time he'd encountered them (his earliest lucid memory at this point, because I'm evil) while bound and injured. (Without the context of knowing the people hauling him around, well, I don't blame him for thinking himself a kidnap victim. Again, I'm evil.) Also, the part of that installment from his point of view has no names - he sees them as 'the big man' and 'the youth, lithe and bronze as a fox' - I didn't give them names until I switched to d'Artagnan's POV.
> 
> \- But wait, you say, in "Genoa" when they were talking about the contact poison he mentioned poisoning a religious artifact - doesn't that mean he remembers the events of 1.07 A Rebellious Woman? Sort of... he came to that comment quite late, and, in that episode Aramis was right at the front of the Careful Detecting. Instead of, 'Oh yes, like that time I shoved castor oil and mustard down the Cardinal's throat in a well-intentioned but pointless attempt to save his life, now that you mention it the stinky breath and discoloured tongue are like that corpse I sniffed while we were investigating,' he scrapes up a '... could you do this to a relic, too?' - maybe it's a guess, maybe he picked up a trace of memory, either way he should have been giving more input.
> 
> In “Taken By the Collar”, Aramis literally asks someone whose head wound he is examining, “Do you know who you are?” That's the same story where Porthos thinks he's acting weird, and recalls finding him “limp as a scullery rag” (presumably unconscious) some time before... 
> 
> Um, sorry?


	3. "Do you really want to go down this road, Captain?"

_ He came out of the darkness wearily, to the cold spatter of rain on his head and the wind's dull whine. He was shrouded in fabric. Heat between his knees and gentle rocking - on a horse, then. He reached to wipe the water from his face and stopped. His hands were bound, knotted to the pommel of the saddle. God! his head ached, and the rest of him, filled with the hot deep soreness of a recent beating. It was too easy to drift, to allow himself to be tugged along by those who guided his horse impatiently through the wind-lashed trees. Easy, not wise. He struggled into wakefulness, dragging words into being: horse, night, wind. Big man ahead, wide and glowering; lithe man behind, hat pulled over his eyes. Rain. Trees. Hurt. I? But it would not come.  _

_ A stopping, and the big man turned, dark face fierce. "You," he hissed. "Stay here." They were at a fork in the track and the two men conferred among themselves, pointing at a crumpled map that could scarcely be readable in the rain-stricken night. Their eyes were off him!  _

_ He'd been beaten, and his hands were bound. _

_ He kicked the horse down the side track. _

“And I did not see you again until that brief encounter in Venice,” said Aramis, leaning back in his chair and pulling a piece of bread off the loaf in his hands. “To my considerable surprise.”

“Ours as well,” said Porthos. “You were a sight, up on that bridge.”

“‘Ah, Aramis my friend, our hearts grieved in your absence,’” said Aramis in a deep and theatrical voice. “‘Why do you turn your eyes away from us?’” He lightened his voice to a tenor: ‘Complaining about rescues, smart guy?’” Then he threw the bread at Porthos’ head.  

“Peace, brother,” said Porthos, catching it on the rebound. His eyes grew distant. “You thought I was an enemy and you still got me out of that fortress.”

Beside him, d'Artagnan stirred.

Aramis’ eyebrows quirked. “I've met hardened generals of the Inquisition who thought Vargas’ methods were extreme and uncalled for. I wouldn't have left a rabid dog in there. Besides, I had questions I wanted answered.”

“You threw him off the castle wall!” d'Artagnan burst out. “You almost killed him!”

“But clearly I didn't,” said Aramis, unruffled, “so I think we can call that day a win for everybody. Except Vargas, and I don't mind his feelings over much, do you?”

“What were you even doing there?”

“Rescuing Porthos, of course.” Aramis’ face was very bland. Porthos slapped his forehead. To the side, Athos watched them, inscrutable in the half shadow, a goblet in one gloved hand.   

D'Artagnan drew breath. He didn't say,  _ When Porthos told us what happened, he looked like you'd planted a knife in his belly.  _ He didn't say,  _ They were stumbling around like amputees for two years and now you sit here cool as a cat with the cream. _ He didn't say,  _ When the men in camp saw you, and an old hand called your name, I saw a knife drop into your hand. What of that, Aramis? _ The words sank in his belly like sour wine; the night wind threw spatters of rain against the canvas.

Athos spoke, then, “The outpost at Saint-Martin was undefended.” He sipped from the goblet, then stared at its contents with distaste. “As you told d'Artagnan it would be.”  

Aramis said, very innocently, “Perhaps I heard it from a laundry-woman, as I passed through the area. Great ones for gossip, laundry-women.”

“I would not know,” said Athos dryly. 

“No, you wouldn't. I've seen the state of your shirts,” said Aramis. Porthos laughed.    __

“You asked him about ‘San Sebastian’.”

Aramis’ eyes were very calm. “Old business,” he said. “Not something to trouble over.” He pulled another piece of bread off the loaf, then glanced up. “Did you speak of it to anyone else?”

“Only Treville.”

“The Minister for War,” said Aramis thoughtfully, and shrugged, popping the bread in his mouth and swallowing. “So, and so.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” said Athos. 

Aramis stood, stretching slightly, and asked Porthos, “I lost your trail after you left Vargas’ hospitality. Did you go cross country, then?”  

The big man shook his head. “Diplomatic party from the Ottoman Empire, heading home. It tickled them to help me out.”

“Clever.” Porthos grinned.  

“Aramis…” said Athos softly.  

Aramis stood half in shadows and looked back at them, one hand on his hip. "My disreputable history… Do you really want to go down this road, Captain? If I told you that my motives had been of the purest, would you believe me?  Would it matter?"

Athos held his tongue; d'Artagnan drew breath to speak, but subsided when Porthos kicked him.

"Then why ask me? Why... look for stains on my garment?"

Porthos watched Athos sort through various responses. At last the Captain went with, "If you had men under your command, would you not want to know of their capabilities? That this one sees well in the dark? That another has a terror of water and should not be posted near the sea? Of their skills with the sword and the gun?"

The corner of Aramis' mouth curled up. "Am I under your command?"

Athos waited.

Aramis sat down.

"What did you do?"

"Let me think now. Theft, forgery, blackmail, prison breaks, kidnapping, blockade running, blockade building, assisted simony -  _ heu, _ I lied about my age - going out after curfew... I am a terrible pirate, but piracy also. To my recollection I fornicated with seven women, and two men. Does that trouble you - brothers?"

"Does it trouble you?" Athos asked neutrally.

"Sweethearts all, except perhaps Dolores... and I think we might have had something really special...  if it hadn't been for the jumping out of windows, and the shouting, and the murders."

“Was this Dolores the nun you travelled with?”

“No, Dolores was an assassin,” said Aramis patiently. “I never said I travelled with a nun.” 

“Then, who?”

“It's wrong to jump to conclusions. Christ, a nun's heart would have given out….” 

“Aramis.”

“I worked the miracle trade,” said Aramis, “with a certain great lady. She had many names, but she preferred to go by Milady de -”

“Winter?”

“Ah, you know this lady.” In the background, d'Artagnan swore.

“She is my wife,” said Athos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No, you wouldn't. I've seen the state of your shirts,” said Aramis. - The eternally disreputable state of Athos' linen is a hill I will die on.
> 
> Oh yes, "the miracle trade" - there's a bit in the book, where the Cardinal is telling Milady to either blackmail Buckingham to stop him reinforcing La Rochelle, or if that doesn't work, to kill him. But he doesn't say that last in so many words, instead telling a rambling story about some bigwig who was randomly murdered by some random guy before he could do something politically significant. What a miracle! the Cardinal says. Hence Aramis and Milady's euphemism.


	4. “If you will excuse the melodrama.”

“She is my wife,” said Athos. “She said,” he swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, “she said she was done with that life.” He felt, as she always made him feel, as if punched in the gut, breathless and aching.

“Clearly she changed her mind,” he heard d'Artagnan say.  

Aramis was looking at him with… interest, eyes bright, hand lifting to his throat.  

“She told you something about me,” he said, and the other man answered with a nod. Athos wondered what lurid, self-serving tales they might have been and concluded, drearily, that they couldn't be worse than the truth. He heard again the creak of a rope, a stifled gasp - he shook himself back to the tent and the hanging light. The wine in his cup was watered as much as he dared in camp, a thin and sour mixture that satisfied no-one; he drained it anyway. “She said she was going to England,” he said, the voice coming out of his throat plaintive as a bird’s.

“She did a few jobs for the English,” Aramis answered carefully, something like concern in his dark eyes, “among others: Prussians, Swiss, every flavour of Italian, even the Spanish on occasion.”

“So you were… some kind of freelance mercenaries,” said d'Artagnan gruffly.

“That might be said,” answered Aramis non-committally.

“Makes sense,” the younger man muttered. Aramis eyed him askance.

“I'm still trying to get my head around you an’ piracy,” said Porthos.

“Would you prefer the term, privateer? A grubby little business either way.”

“No,” said Porthos easily, “you at _sea_.”

Aramis looked sulky. “A little _mal de mer_ …”

“Did you get out of the harbour?”

Aramis crossed his arms. Porthos laughed.

Athos swallowed, “So you travelled with… Anne.”

Aramis looked up, eyebrows quirked. “That is not a name I would call her, but yes.”

_He'd left the horse miles away. A good horse, a wonderful horse, but she had to keep to the tracks and was starting to limp besides, so he'd raided the saddle-bags, unfastened the bit, and sent her on her way with a slap of the rump. After that, getting lost in the woods was very easy. Whatever he might be, he was not a woodsman. He moved as cautiously as he could through the black tangles, the roots that tangled his feet, the branches that scratched at his eyes. Dante on his way to Hell, he might have been, or trudging out of it._

“If you will excuse the melodrama,” said Aramis, breaking the last of the bread in his hands. “I was in a rather self-pitying frame of mind at the time.” He saw a faint smile curl the Captain's lips and continued.

_A slip of the foot! He skidded wildly down a slope, then rolled, will he, nill he, the rest of the way, his battered body jarred atrociously. He missed a rock by some miracle and then cursed his luck as he tumbled out over a void, barely grasping at the edge of a low cliff, legs waving wildly for purchase. A savage grin pulled his lips back over his teeth: he'd come this far, he wasn't going to die again!_

“Truly. Melodrama,” said Aramis. “My apologies. In any case, a carriage came rattling down the road not long after and I dropped down upon it. The coachman drove the horses hard; the jolt of my landing did not make him turn. It seemed impolitic to distract him on such a twisty road and it was cold in the wind so I decided it were best to introduce myself to the passengers.

_He scrabbled spider like over the roof of the carriage, almost falling as it veered around a curve, catching at a rail with white-knuckled hands and swinging down to the running board. He unlatched the door and it swung open._

_The darkness inside stirred. There was a woman, clinging to a leather handhold and swaying with the coach as a skilled rider moves with the horse. A fragment of moonlight came through the open door and illumined her face, an oval of white framed in black with eyebrows like the fierce wings of a hawk. She was afraid, he thought to himself; she was angry; she was beautiful to take the breath away._

“So you liked her,” said the boy, d’Artagnan.

“Wouldn't you?”

The boy's mouth took on a peculiar twist.

“She also had a gun pointed at my head,” added Aramis cheerfully.

_The pistol did not waver, despite the swaying of the coach. It was perhaps time to make his peace with God, but she hadn't fired yet, so... “Can a humble traveller beg a ride from a beautiful lady, madame?” he quipped._

_Recognition stirred in her features. “Get in, Aramis,” she snapped, and flipped the pistol to hand it to him butt first._

“She knew me,” said Aramis. “She trusted me with a weapon.”

“And that is how you came to work for her?”

“Hmm,” Aramis rubbed his chin. “For quite some time I thought I already did.” He shrugged. “After we'd sorted out a spot of unpleasantness with some Piedmontese boarders I followed her home. There may have been some manly swooning - I was rather tired. But in the morning there was a suit of clothes which fit me well enough, and she did not inquire what I was doing there at breakfast. I could tell I'd taken a crack on the head: there was a small goose-egg on my temple as well as - no matter - and it isn't uncommon after a brainshaking for a man to be a little… lost. I guessed things would settle soon enough and I had no desire to proclaim myself a liability. So I played along. Clever Aramis, clever, clever,” he said wryly. “Never let them see you bleed.”

He looked down at the bread and realised that he had reduced it to crumbs in his hands. “This isn't something I talk about,” he said harshly. A hand landed on his shoulder and he froze, then let himself relax and lifted his head.


	5. "Wily. Wicked. Tough. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' head is a complicated place right now.

There was a hand on his shoulder.

Aramis spared a flickering glance. It was the boy touching him, sooty black eyebrows furrowed. Aramis brought his eyes back front, to the Captain in his shadowy chair and the big man, Porthos. He dusted the crumbs off his palms, keeping his movements deliberately small and slow, and said, “But then, we all have our secrets and hidden perturbations. How was your day?”

“Well enough,” rumbled the big man. “Got rained on. One of my squad’s horses threw a shoe. You?”

“Refreshing. I took a nice nap in the morning, and a brief turn about your quarters this afternoon.”

“While praying with a rosary,” said the boy, d’Artagnan. The hand was still on his shoulder, on the right - not his strongest side at present. But the boy did not control the room.

Aramis flashed a quick smile. “I'm a man of many talents.”

“What did you think of them?” the Captain asked.  
  
He might tell back what he’d seen, unreeling the numbers of fires and horses and able-bodied men like beads on a string, but he thought it unlikely they wanted a scouting report. Nevertheless it had been an interesting day, pottering through the section of camp owned by the King's Own Musketeers with the boy like a very tall terrier at his heels, and all about a soft forget-me-not blue repeated in the flags and capes, blue, blue, blue. He'd almost cut a throat, in reflex, the first time one of the older soldiers called after him, on balance was glad he hadn't for the simple surreality of it - a fox brought to bay by hounds that only wanted to lick his black nose. Aramis had a history here.

But they wanted to know what he thought of the regimental quarters, did they not? “Morale seemed good,” he said. “The men are a little underweight, about what I'd expect for this end of the campaign season. Your gear is serviceable - you aren't having problems with supplies.”

“You still know your battle camps,” said the Captain softly.

“And my battlefields,” answered Aramis, looking down at the palms of his hands. He'd had a conversation with a Spanish commander that had progressed much like this. And hadn't Jeromin de Medina been an interesting fellow, when all was shaken out. “It's good that your latrines are so close to the mess,” he added. “Not so far to walk when they get the squits.” The Captain smiled slightly. “We've talked about this before, I see.”

“You always had strong opinions on such things,” said the big man. “Army camps are never gonna be clean.”

“Miasmas,” Aramis said darkly, “ _spread.”_ There was a hand still on his shoulder, on his right, where the hitch of an old wound in his ribs still burned like a tiny star. A blow, if it came, would come from the right, easy enough to roll with. The boy did not control the room. Aramis had chosen to be here. He folded his hands in his lap, and let his thumb slide under one sleeve cuff, where a faded blue ribbon still wound around his wrist. The same colour as the Captain's sash, interestingly enough. Was that why she had tied it on him, back in the early days when he lost time more often than not, out of some kind of familiarity? Forget-me-not blue.

The Captain licked his lips. “My w- A- the lady with whom you travelled, how would you describe her…?”

He looked as pained by Madame as she was by him. Fair enough: how terrible to be hurt by someone untroubled by your name. She had to have known about Aramis’ little problem or why else was he absent all her stories of a man who was, apparently, his good friend? Sly girl. Should he be bothered by that? It seemed, on balance, a terrible waste of his energy. The Captain - Athos - was waiting on an answer; Aramis had a sudden sense memory of what the man’s scarred upper lip felt like under his fingertips, the reek of sour wine and vomit, a low voice muttering _get out get out leave me be damn you…_ Formidable yet fragile: how best not to hurt him?   

“Mmm,” Aramis let his eyelids droop. “Wily. Wicked. Tough - beat her down to the bedrock and she'll come back with a snarl on her lips and a blade at your throat.” And where the hell _was_ she? “Strong - I've seen her pick up a man and hang him on a hook on the wall; it was magnificent. Kindness did not come easily to her.” And yet she had been so very kind, in her way, in her fashion. “She was good to me.”    
  
A soft snort to his right and the hand left his shoulder. _Finally._ The boy moved off and leaned against the table, wrapping his arms loosely around his torso. There was history there, writ large and garish across his face. “And she _just happened_ to be passing through Asti when you _just happened_ to need a ride after you _just happened_ to blunder into us. That was convenient.”

Aramis smiled slightly, eyes distant. “She used to call it the devil's luck. We did manage to stumble across the most appalling coincidences - and we didn't manufacture more than half of them, I'd swear to it.”

“The ‘miracle trade’,” breathed the Captain. Aramis lifted a hand and waggled it slightly.

“You said privateering, not piracy, before,” the boy interrupted suddenly. “Privateers have _patrons_.”

“You’re asking me for our _primum mobile_? What a question of theology,” answered Aramis, amusement on his face. “Or perhaps not. Tell me, if you please, when you flirt with a young lady, do you advocate just shoving a hand down her chemise?”

D'Artagnan bristled.

“Flirting with an older lady then. Don't fret,” said Aramis, “I'm not quick to judge.”

“Enough, enough _games,”_ d'Artagnan gritted. “Just tell us what you know.”

“I know my catechism,” Aramis answered brightly. “I believe in the One God -”

Athos raised one hand and the recitation stopped. “Can you perhaps be more specific?” he asked wearily.

Aramis hesitated, drew breath to speak, and then let it out. His teeth clicked shut.

Porthos yawned, then, a great breathy thing like the roar of the sea, and said, “Well I don't know my catechism, but I do know I'm tired.” He almost reached for Aramis’ shoulder, but then dropped his hand to lightly touch the other’s wrist. “Off to bed, I'm thinking. D'Artagnan, you don't mind bunking with Athos, right?”

“Apparently I don't,” d'Artagnan answered wryly. He watched Porthos leave, then, and Aramis follow peaceful as a lamb. After a time, he said, “He was our friend, and it's good to have him back. And…” he struggled with the words, “Milady wasn't all bad, near the end, before she went away. But she always had something going on. Always. All I’m saying is, can we be a bit careful about this?”  

Athos glared at him with baleful eyes. “Get out,” he rasped.

+++

“I got a shirt I can lend you for tomorrow and some good wool stockings,” Porthos said, rummaging through the tent he normally shared with d'Artagnan. “I'm always good for stockings, me. Got a friend in Paris sends ‘em - Mademoiselle de Foix, great strapping girl, blonde as butter. Funny story, for a while there we thought she might be my aunty and by the time we found out different we'd got ourselves accustomed to being related, so now I'm her brother which is a bit more comfortable on account of she's younger’n me…” He kept up a steady patter as they peeled off their outer clothes for sleeping, and watched in amusement as Aramis set out his boots and breeches the same way he always had when on campaign, stacked where he could climb into them in a brace of heartbeats at need. He saw the laughter flash in the other man's eyes when he realised Porthos set his clothes exactly the same.  

When the stubby tallow candle was blown out, he heard Aramis ask, “What are you thinking, big man?”

“I'm thinking,” he said, very gently, “that a lot of people have tried to beat answers out of you.”

Aramis was silent in the darkness. Then, “I was only caught the once that I didn't mean to be.”

“Mmph.”

“People ask the _most_ interesting questions, sometimes. Prisoner interrogations can make for an excellent distraction. Information that is believed to have been extorted is, oddly enough, far more convincing.”

“You put yourself out as bait,” said Porthos slowly.

“I got the job done.”

“What else did she make you do?” growled Porthos.

“‘Make’ big man? _Heu_ , it's difficult to ‘make’ me do anything.”

“What else did she strongly suggest or imply would make her wonderfully happy, then?” Porthos asked with an edge in his voice.   

“I think you misunderstand our relationship.”

“Then _clarify_ ,” Porthos bit out, then sighed. “I… I know what it's like to cling to people when times are a bit rough.” There were things he'd done palling around with Charon and Flea that he'd never told Athos or d'Artagnan and never would. Aramis had known, once - he'd always been good at catching other’s secrets. “I'll tell you about the Court of Miracles sometime.”

“I hid in a grave once,” said Aramis dreamily. “Half the damned army was after me so I crawled in with some dead soldiers and gambled the grave men would move on before I choked.” Cloth rustled. “As you see.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Days getting the lime out of my hair… I don't break easy, big man. Porthos.”   

There was something Porthos wanted to break right now, but it wasn't Aramis. 

"If I hadn't been about Madame's errands, you would - well, you'd have had a rather better acquaintance with Spain's intelligence service than any sane man would appreciate. Ways and means and first movers are more than I, for one, can fathom."

Porthos said nothing. 

“I'm in the boy's bed, aren't I?”

“Go to sleep, Aramis.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan - great at asking pertinent questions; not so good at empathy. :-(
> 
> "Army camps are never gonna be clean." - I can't place the source, but I remember reading about the huge improvement in military effectiveness when organised armies started enforcing a minimum distance between the mess and the privies, and the soldiers stopped coming down with dysentery and cholera (nicknamed 'camp fever' on account of its commonness) quite so much. 
> 
> "I've seen her pick up a man and hang him on a hook." - In "Knight Takes Queen" there was precisely one person around to hang that banker on the door. Damn, that's a party trick of Milady's. 
> 
> "She used to call it the devil's luck." - Milady’s knack for turning up places she logically should not be, at just the right time to do something awful, is straight out of the book. I'm very canonical!


	6. "He's gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, since season 3 spoilers are coming up like wildflowers: this series is not intended to be s3 compliant. (I did riff off some of the pictures released earlier.)

"When I said, 'no poking,' d'Artagnan..."

"I'm trying, I am. He just... was he always that twisty, and I just didn't see it? Or..."

"... He always had a lot of secrets. Some of 'em were mine. You know, all that time I thought he was holding something for Athos? An' instead -"

"Don't say it!" 

"Look, d'Artagnan, you're a good man, and a grand soldier. But you haven't ever lost a battle yet. Not one that matters."

"I wasn't planning on it, either."

"No-one is going to take your place."

"Only literally."

"You're not that petty."

"No, but I do need a clean shirt. And a comb."

"Some women like the 'dishevelled puppy' look. Constance did: I could see her fingers twitch to untangle your tousled locks."

"Oh ha ha. Can I get into my dunnage now?"

"I'll check if he's awake - hoi, Aramis! ... An' he's gone..."

"I'm not at all surprised."

+++

Porthos found him, eventually, down by the river, where the water ran shallow and clear over brown stones and the women who made their living cleaning the laundry of the crowded camp beat armfuls of soggy linen and spread it out to dry on the rocks.

Aramis perched on a sun-warmed stone; he had his hands buried in the hair of Argente, a different kind of camp-follower. “Trust me,” he was muttering around a mouthful of bronze hairpins, “you’ll look like a queen.”

Argente touched with an uncertain hand the complex twists half of her hennaed hair had already been coaxed into. “Well, if you're sure,” she said doubtfully. She was  _ en deshabille _ herself, covered vaguely in an overdress while her shifts and petticoats dried in the rare drop of autumn sun, and had hiked the skirt up her thighs for their own airing. She looked up and saw Porthos on the bank. “Here, you,” she squealed. “Don't look at my underpinnings!”   

“I've already seen ‘em,” Porthos protested.

“I’n’t the same,” she said, “now shoo.”

The band of laundresses was staring at him now, their low voices not exactly hostile, but… Porthos turned on his heel and fled, hearing Aramis’ laughter behind him.   

+++

Porthos had the time so he set about his own ablutions, further away, where the willow trees wept green fronds in the water. Times were he'd have hovered on the edge of the river his own self, but he was an officer now and theoretically a gentleman. He had a bucket. 

He dipped in a cloth and wiped his face and neck, felt the water trickle down his shoulders. A crunch of a foot on gravel behind him and he raised his head. “Yes, yes,” said Aramis, “hiding behind a woman's skirts.”

Porthos shrugged, not turning around. “I imagine you have all the gossip in camp by now.”

“Only half,” said Aramis cheerfully. “Argente calls you clean and kind hearted, by the by.”

“Good to know,” Porthos grunted.

“I take my bona fides where I can.” He circled into view, looking like a bean pole wrapped in a sail in Porthos’ second best shirt, the one with the blue embroidery down the sleeves. He sat on the ground in front of Porthos, legs drawn up and forearms resting lightly on his knees. His hair was damp, straggling across his forehead, and his beard looked freshly groomed. He looked at Porthos’ face intently, and his thumb moved lightly across his fingertips. “I was looking for something to keep my hands busy,” he confided at last.

“Do you trust me?” Porthos asked.

“I let you shoot fruit off my head,” said Aramis, smiling slightly. His eyes sharpened. “That's a burn, on your side.” A near miss, that, at Roncesvalles; it had worked out alright. “May I?” asked Aramis. Porthos lifted his arm in invitation. Aramis shuffled back around and Porthos felt cool fingers pressing against the tender edges of the half-healed burn. He was gentler than the camp surgeons, always had been. “Still some heat,” Aramis said, voice thoughtful, “Is it sore?” Porthos shrugged. “Can you feel that? How about now? Here? Hmm,” he said at last, “Well, you'll play the fiddle again, I imagine, assuming you could in the first place.”

The fingers hovered, resting lightly on Porthos’ skin. “Go ahead,” he said. “You've seen most of me, one way or another.”

They skittered across his flesh, spider-like, and Porthos sat stoically, ignoring the gooseflesh. They ran up one of his scars, then paused. “This is one of mine,” he heard Aramis say.

Porthos grinned. “Stitched or sliced?”

“Is that a trick question?” A light scratch of fingernail. “Stitched, I think. Yes, stitched, in an old manor house with much light coming through the windows. You were scared you were going to lose your arm; I was angry and trying not to show it. The boy was there, and the Captain, looking  _ wrecked. _ Someone else… he painted his eyes like a sailor. Aemilio.”

“Emile Bonnaire,” supplied Porthos. “We were transporting him to Paris for trial.”

“That must have surely been an interesting trip.”

The fingertips ran up behind his ear and tugged lightly on his hair, testing the length of his curls. “You ain't putting my hair up in pins,” Porthos said.

A huff of laughter. Then, spoken low, “You looked for me at Douai, ‘where they train the martyrs,’ you said.” Porthos felt his shoulders knot. But Aramis did not continue that line, instead asking, “What is my birth name, then, and whyever did I not use it?”

“Rene,” said Porthos. “Rene d’Herblay. ‘Aramis’ was prettier, you said. An’ your father din’t approve of soldiering.” A breath. “He died in a sickness before I met you.”

“‘Rene’,” Aramis tasted the word. “‘Reborn’. How horribly appropriate.”    

Silence for a moment, then his fingers drummed lightly on Porthos’ shoulder. “If I - well, big man, you see… if there should come a morning when I don't know you…”

“I should duck?” Porthos asked easily.

Aramis tweaked his ear. “Don't fret. It will pass soon enough.” The fingers went away, and he moved to sit on Porthos’ right, looking out over the murmuring river. He tapped Porthos’ wrist lightly. “I could expound on the Book of Job for you, but honestly, I preferred Judith’s style.”

“I got no idea what that means,” said Porthos. Another huff of laughter. “May I?” he asked. Aramis shifted away, but it was only to get a better angle for him to pick up Porthos’ hand, cool fingers circling his wrist. He tipped his head forward and guided Porthos’ fingers to the back of his scalp, where dents and knots of keloid scarring could be felt through the damp hair.   

“Sore?”

“Tolerable,” Aramis answered, but his jaw was knotted. Porthos let his hand drop.

“After all this time.”

Aramis shrugged. “It was already healed when I first met you.” His black eyes slid to the side. “These things happen.”  

“Hang on.” Porthos felt in his breech pockets and found a handkerchief wrapped around a handful of jujubes.

Aramis took it with amusement. “Porthos. Are you trying to tame me with food?”

Porthos grinned. “Is it working?”

“I am hungry,” Aramis admitted. “Three weeks tormented by an Irishwoman armed with beef tea and milksops, pheh. Ah,  _ as ucht Dé _ ,” he muttered in exasperation, and yawned, “here we go again…” Suddenly, with a sigh, he half-collapsed, boneless, against Porthos’ side. “It's like leaning against a tree,” he said cheerfully and yawned again.

Porthos nudged him lightly. “Who was this Irishwoman? Did Milady ditch you ‘cause you got sick?”

“‘Scomplicated,” Aramis mumbled. “She told me I could come to you for help.”

“I don't know any Irish. Unless you mean Argente…?”

“Madame, of course.” Aramis twitched and tried to sit up. “Don't let me fall.”

“I won't; it's safe.”  

+++

Well, Aramis was awake  _ now. _ His humours ran out of true to a ridiculous degree at present. He tapped one foot against the edge of the cot and said, “And here's to the boy getting his bed back.”

“His name is d'Artagnan,” said the Captain, not looking up from his papers. The hanging lamp and a recently acquired brazier threw warmth and light to both of them against the autumn chill.

“I'm not putting you out, am I?”

“It is not a trouble to me.”

A thought struck Aramis, “Am I married?”

The Captain's hand did not pause in his writing. “No.”

“Stop me if this is a personal question, please, but what happened to your hat?”

“I no longer am afflicted with hangovers.”

Fair enough. There was a story there to be picked at, but best perhaps left to another time. The man had a truly lovely voice, all silk velvet over sharp steel. Aramis wondered if he ever recited poetry. And also... “Were we lovers?”   

“No.” The scritch of a pen, then the Captain continued, “In retrospect that is what you were hinting about, the first year of our acquaintance. I can be very stupid about some things.”  

“Ah… my apologies if I was importunate.”

“You were not.”  

Aramis drummed his fingers on his ribs. Waiting was not something he'd ever shown much talent for. He was uncomfortably aware of how Kitty must have felt when he and Madame disappeared for days to come back with bloody teeth and gold in their pockets. But then, he'd always known she was brave under the quivering. What to do, what to do... gather his strength and push on for Paris? But this place got dispatches almost every day; any relevant news about San Sebastian would come here soon enough - and when it came down to it, no news was good news. He could wait a little longer. If he could wait...

He rolled off the cot and looked for his sewing kit: he could keep his hands busy and do something about the Captain’s horrifying linen at the same time. 

"What are you up to?" Athos asked, not looking up. 

"Up to being useful," said Aramis as he rifled through Athos' chest, " _Dia ár sábháil,_  what do you do to your shirts, stamp on them?" Then he looked up, holding a tiny leather-bound book up to his nose. "Athos?" he asked cautiously, "who gave this psaltery to you?"

"The Curè of Portet-sur-Garonne, after the Te Deum for the Battle of Toulouse," replied Athos.

"You're welcome,” muttered Aramis, very low.

“What was that?”

"Have you been reading it?"

"No."

"Heathen," said Aramis fondly, flicking through the pages with a handkerchief-covered  thumb. It was a tiny jewel of the illuminator's art, each page brilliant with colour. "Does it have any value to you, sentimental or otherwise?"

Athos shook his head, still engrossed in his report.

"Good," said Aramis, and flung it on the brazier. "I'll take care of it." Portet wasn't far at all, a couple of hours ride at most. He could be back by morning.

Athos looked up at the sound of the tent canvas being pulled back, to see Aramis in his muffling cloak, about to leave. “Where are you going?”

"To see a priest. That book was poisoned."  

Athos stared at the brazier: the book lay peacefully on the coals a moment, then flickered into fiery life, the flames of it coming up green and red and purple. When he got to the entrance, Aramis had disappeared out of sight.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "As ucht Dé" - "from the breast of God" according to http://www.bitesize.irish/blog/cussing-like-a-leprechaun/ - apparently this is a fairly mild swear in Irish. (My beta was worried about Kitty: she's fine, you have my oath.)
> 
> "Dia ár sábháil" - "God save us" same source.
> 
> A Te Deum is a mass of thanksgiving, a big flashy affair. 
> 
> "I'll take care of it." - there's a bit in Man in the Iron Mask where (older) Aramis basically says to his friend Foucault, 'Hey, bro, I notice you've been having problems with the king catching on to your peculation but DON'T WORRY I arranged to have him replaced with a duplicate who will be amenable to our advice for at least a year YOUR PROBLEM IS SORTED.' I'm just saying, any version of Aramis helping with your problems is potentially terrifying.


	7. "Some things can't be run from, or fought."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this scene for length.
> 
> CW: Passing references to canon violence, canon attempted rape, and non-canon domestic violence (not committed by a main character).

“You dislike me,” said Aramis, hands smoothing a curry comb along the flank of a stubby-legged mare.

“I don't… _not_ like you,” answered d'Artagnan, as he leaned against one of the picket posts, arms loosely wrapped around his torso. That wasn't strictly true - the man who walked in Aramis’ skin raised his hackles at least seven times a day. He even dressed differently - nothing of the soldier about him, in a black doublet cut plain and severe. With no sword or pistol in sight it gave him a faint air of a physician or an ecclesiastic but, ever the dandy, something in the cut made him look slender as a reed and effortlessly elegant. And d'Artagnan had _heard_ the hint of Italian in his speech thicken when strangers were near. Why shouldn't he find that unsettling?   

“It seems to me you have it set up so you can go anywhere and do anything and Athos and Porthos won't ask you about it. And that bothers me.”

Aramis tutted. “From a tactical perspective? I might have less freedom than you understand.”

 _“Don't_ call me stupid.” D’Artagnan almost waved his arms for emphasis but the presence of the beautiful, spookable horses around them kept him still. He wondered morbidly if Aramis had planned it that way.  

“I never did,” said Aramis peacefully.

D'Artagnan recognised the horse that Aramis groomed, a scrubby little thing from the remount herd. The mare was of an original colour, somewhere between saffron, which was rare, and ochre which was not, and had a reputation for eating twice her share of hay and never moving faster than a determinedly placid amble. But she declined to come down with colic or any of the illnesses that skipped along the horse lines and found gunshot and cannon mildly irksome at most, and so she stayed.

“Athos would give you a better horse if you asked.”

“I like this one's paces.”  Aramis stroked her soft muzzle and cooed, “Peaceful as a rocking chair, aren't you my darling?” The yellow horse didn't even flick her ear.

He leaned his elbows on the horse's back, then, and looked straight at d'Artagnan, his black eyes crinkled in a smile. “I'll trade if you like. Three questions answered to the best of one's ability. I'll even let you go first.”

“... Why…?” D'Artagnan could almost feel Porthos’ hand whacking him on the back of the head. But he hadn't started this, so.

“Because I feel like it…?”  Aramis’ eyes flicked to the side. He shrugged. “Some things can't be run from, or fought. I need to make peace with what that man left to me. That includes you.”

“Did that question count?”

“ _Heu,_ you're learning. We'll let those last two slide,” said Aramis generously.

“What _really_ happened at Portet-sur-Garonne, then?”

“I already told you all.” Aramis smiled. “I confronted the Curè, he admitted what he’d done on account of his lost nephew, I mean ward, we poor lost souls prayed over our sins, and I came home mellow as butter, the last of the poison and a confession in my dainty white hands.”

D'Artagnan snorted.

Aramis made a small pained noise. “You expected me to bring back his head in a bag like Judith, did you? Or a farm cat dragging in a champion rat, I suppose.” He grinned, then said, “The old man was glad I came, I think. He loved his ward, I mean nephew, very much, you see, and blamed the Captain for his death in the fighting. Better men have done worse for dafter reasons.”

“If you can't keep straight whether he was a ‘nephew’ or a ‘ward’ how am I to take this story seriously?” replied d'Artagnan in a low drawl. “And I've never met a murderer who was glad to be caught.”

Aramis eyed him reproachfully. “We can spare some delicacy for an old man’s past indiscretions, surely?”  His hands worked again along the horse’s flank, who leaned into the comb. His eyes dropped. “Some things really are as simple as a moment of passion and a lifetime of regret. It was well past Matins when I found the Curè’s house, but a light still burned. Cold as hell inside, and not even whom he loathed to speak to in there. The old man was haunted by one not yet dead - he welcomed the lifting of that burden, and a chance to speak of the boy, that also.” Aramis’ voice roughened. “Though as to how an Italian assassin’s trick came this far north…” His eyes sharpened like a hunting dog on point, then he shook himself. “Do you know why we love to confess to strangers? It is not the sacrament of penance, but that they do not know us. No better version of ourselves to disappoint and so we can release our darkness to their uncertain kindness. It was poison for the old man, not infection, and I could take that from him. A good night for everyone.”

“It was a Jesuit, last time,” offered d'Artagnan. “Father Sestini from Rome with a poisoned knee bone, and we all wondered why we were saving the Cardinal's life.”

“Thank you, d'Artagnan.” Aramis beamed at him in approval, and d'Artagnan felt a reluctant glow of pride, quickly dismissed. He found himself missing Aramis desperately, old Aramis, the perfumed fop and crack shot who'd casually drape an arm across his shoulders or correct his aim with maddening precision; Aramis whose sharp looks usually led to offers of hot dinners or long, rambling, hilarious anecdotes of Aramis’ own woeful love life instead of a general impression he was looking for d'Artagnan's vital points; who never played keep-away like a man with a broken arm or that one friend of Constance's whose husband used to beat her, as if d'Artagnan were some strange, savage creature who couldn't be trusted.  

The horse whickered and Aramis apologised to the animal, moving his hands again over her shaggy hide. “What shall we call you, hm? ‘Buttercup’? ‘Kitty’ is taken I'm afraid, and besides you look nothing alike. How about ‘Jezebel’ who wore her colours with pride...” The horse tossed her head and he smiled like a cat. Then he said, “Your relationship with Madame: elucidate if you please.”

Aramis who didn’t play games.

“The day my father died was the first time I killed a man.” D’Artagnan bit the knuckle of his thumb gently. “I grew up on a farm - it's different butchering sheep. My first real fight was a swift running mess in the rain. There was blood and mud in my teeth, afterward, I remember that.” D’Artagnan shook his head. “And then I found my father lying on the ground, with nothing to be done but listen to his last words. I was, ah, a bit emotional afterwards.” He looked up and Aramis gave a brief encouraging nod. D'Artagnan shrugged awkwardly. “Maybe it would have happened anyway that night, young men are a bit notorious aren't we? But when she walked into that grubby little inn with the fat man at her side, I was spoiling for a fight. I was spoiling for _something._ And there she was in this dress like a red rose. That was the first time I lay with a woman, too - I've never told that to anyone before,” he said, a little helplessly. Aramis nodded again. “And then she framed me for murder, how's that for a morning after?” he asked dryly, and watched the other man's lips quirk in understanding.

He stumbled through that moment when he'd realised that Milady de Winter must have been behind the attempt to frame Athos for banditry, and what that meant - that his father's death was nothing to her but a denier tossed into the pot in a game of Spoil Five she played against her husband, and so was he. And knowing that, he'd still lusted after her, still hoped to smell flowers and turn to see her, a promise of wickedness and paradise in her cool green eyes and a knife at his throat. “I threw up,” said d’Artagnan baldly, “kneeling in an alley in the rain, and you all thought I was drunk, but oh, I wasn’t, I didn't dare."

"And then,” he said, swallowing hard, “when we had plans to bring her down, to trick her ourselves, I - I asked her why, why she was doing this, why she hated Athos so much. And she said his brother had tried to, he -” D’Artagnan broke off. “She looked so sad, then, and scared, like a lost little girl daring to trust for the first time in years. And I felt like such a heel for tormenting her.” He shuddered. “It was all a ploy, of course, to bind me to her more tightly. There is nothing about her that does not seek to use men.”

 _And do you know that?_ he thought silently, _do you understand? Did she even need to seduce you, broken as you were? She ran you like a hunting dog and you just let that happen._

“You were sleeping with Milady yourself, right?”

“We shared a bed on occasion,” answered Aramis peacefully. “Trees and hedgerows as well. She's a terror for stealing the blankets.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

"You ask me if I have lain in the lady's sweat? If, as the bible would have it, I have known her? I have shared a bed with her, cleaned off blood from her hands and mine. I've known her in the heat of summer when rage follows her like a black lion. I know the wickedness in her bones, the wiliness, and the resilience, also. I know," he said dreamily, "I know the scent of her skin when she is happy. Does that answer your question?"

D'Artagnan swallowed back bile. “I do not understand,” he said tightly, “how you can be so calm about this.”

“I do not know how not to be,” answered Aramis. “But I am sorry about your father.”

“She's a killer.”

“As am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say a friend is someone who knows you for what you are and likes you anyway. Unpacking that a little...
> 
> Maybe I should apologise to d'Artagnan fans for writing him so antagonistic. Partly that's because I've been colouring Aramis with his book characterisation which means he and d'Art are absolutely winding each other up. Partly it's that it's very useful to have a character pushing boundaries and asking tactless questions. And, I don't think his genius lies in sorting out his own emotions, let alone someone else's (That scene where he wanted Constance to jump into bed right after burying her husband made me want to slap him so hard).
> 
> That said, characters can surprise you - when I started this scene I thought most of his ire was pique that Milady had played him for a fool. Turns out it's a whole lot more complex for him. I like him a bit more, now.
> 
> Judith - old bible story, one of the few (or only?) where a deceitful woman gets a long and happy life. 
> 
> Matins - unless I've messed up my Catholic minutiae, formal prayers said at night, around midnight, I think. (Please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.) 
> 
> The horse of an original colour is straight from the book. 
> 
> (And, I wrote that post into the scene specifically for d'Artagnan to lean against. He's a good leaner.)


	8. “Infection, not poison.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather morbid. Also, a bit of a deconstruction of a trope common to adventure stories. But, definitely morbid.

“She's a killer.”

“As am I.” Aramis cocked his head suddenly. “And you?” He frowned and offered, “D'Artagnan. Do you remember how many you have killed?”

D'Artagnan frowned back. “I'm a soldier.”

“Yes.”

“I never harmed anyone who wasn't armed and ready to harm me back.”

“Lucky man, then.”

D’Artagnan twitched his shoulders. “If you're trying to make out that I'm not so different from her...”

“I'm not asking for Madame,” said Aramis patiently. “I'm asking for _me._ Let me clarify. Do their faces stay with you? Do you find yourself wondering how they came to lie under your weapon hand, their wives and mothers and sweethearts, the children that might go hungry without their wages? Or is it more one after another like beads on a string?” His eyes flickered. “Or do you never count, losing them in the simple exaltation of a moment of war?”

“I'm a soldier,” said d’Artagnan again.

“Yes,” said Aramis.

D'Artagnan tossed his head. “Some,” he said. “I remember some.” He folded his arms again. “My first. The man who burned my family farm, and my father's killer. Vadim who almost destroyed the Louvre. A band of peasant conscripts, soft as dough,” he added, voice falling, and shook himself. “It's a different way of thinking,” he said, flaring. “The colours get so bright it almost hurts and I'm in the wind, even underground. And if I hesitate the people I fight _with_ would be hurt. So I don't. Hesitate. Is that what you wanted to know? No-one ever tried to make that out as a bad thing before.”

“You’re a soldier,” said Aramis gently.

“And I'm proud of that!” Aramis nodded. D'Artagnan felt ill, though whether it was from a dose of poison or the purging to cleanse it he could not say. But the other wasn't done.

“Three thousand in one blow, once upon a time,” Aramis said, not looking up from the yellow horse’s mane, which he had started braiding into finicky little twists. “I knew I was a killer on the first night of my existence,” he added conversationally, “fending off a few Piedmontese in the rain - some things come very easily to me.” He shrugged. “This, though.

“I could have done it,” he amended, “arguably should have, for reasons of patriotism though I did not know that at the time. A troop of horse to lose in the hills, and I could have ensured they never came out. There was leverage in that landscape. I saw where to lay the powder; I held the landslide in my hand.” He rubbed his eyes.

“But you didn't…?” said d’Artagnan slowly. Was Aramis trying to purge a poison of his own?

“There were other options. I was distracted with - I'm not talking about that - I was distracted. It wasn’t until days after that I considered what I'd almost done.”

“But you _didn't_ , right? You're haunted by something that didn't happen?”

“I'm haunted by a lot of things, boy,” said Aramis, his voice light and airy. “ _Tchah_ , aren't I precious, only three thousand? In this decade? There are places to the north and east of here where there's just... there's no-one left anymore. What the soldiers didn't kill, the famine starved and the pestilence took. Nothing. Empty towns with oak trees coming up through the roofs.” He knotted another tiny braid and said cheerfully, “One wonders how God keeps track of it all. Is there a celestial abacus or an exchequer table in the sky, maybe?”

D'Artagnan pushed off the post. “It probably isn't good to joke about that.” The little yellow horse cocked one foot when he got a little too close, proud as a boss mare, and Aramis rubbed a hand along her cheek, smiling.  

Three thousand horse, lost in the hills. How did that sound familiar… “The Battle of Toulouse,” he said thoughtfully, “and de Medina’s reinforcements that came too late to turn the tide. That was -”

“ _Not_ anything but natural causes,” said Aramis primly. “Rising water. Inferior maps. Poor directions from a passing seamstress. Most inconvenient for all concerned I'm sure. Though Jeromin was very gracious about it after, I thought.” His lips curled in a secretive smile. “ _Pff,_ I was discussing a desperate moral quandary and you're distracting me, boy.”  

“Poor directions from a seamstress.”

“Wonderful women as a class, but not known for their sense of direction.”

“I'm not even going to ask why you're on a first-name basis with a Spanish commander.”

“Very sensible,” said Aramis, grinning. “But, in retrospect, that was a good day. Probably.”

The grin was infectious, and d'Artagnan found himself returning it. “Ah…” he said, hooking thumbs in his belt, “sorry if I've been making things… awkward for you.”

“It is a nothing,” Aramis replied. “I've prickles enough of my own, it's true.”

D’Artagnan raked fingers through his loose hair. "I'll try to be kinder when we get our prisoners back."

“... What prisoners would those be?”

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose, “Mm, the half of Porthos’ squad that survived; Lieutenant Grenouille and his men that we lost in March - the ransom negotiations have been falling through all summer. Musketeers are valuable.” He shrugged. "Things have been going well for France lately, so maybe..."

“These things can take time.”

D'Artagnan looked up and his hackles raised again.

It wasn't what Aramis did or said, really, for his hands moved smooth as ever on the yellow horse’s mane, but the way she responded all of a sudden, jittering and twitching under the man’s hands. Beautiful, _spookable_ horses... “Aramis,” he said cautiously, “what do you know about those prisoners?”

“Whyever would I know anything?” The man in Aramis' skin moved back a step and considered his handiwork. “You wouldn't happen to have any silver bells tucked in your pockets, would you? I think they would suit this fine lady. No? The next time I have pocket money, then.”

“I think you're lying,” said d’Artagnan softly, watching the horse twitch.

“Traitorous Jezebel,” Aramis murmured to her, stroking her neck, “but I still like you. You don't want to hear it, boy,” he added, voice sweet as honey even as the horse’s hide jittered under his hand. “Some words are infection, not poison.”

“That’s my third question - tell me!”

All of a sudden Aramis looked inexpressibly weary. “If they are very, very lucky,” he said slowly, “if God or the devil loves them...” He looked away. “They are already dead.”

D’Artagnan stared.

Aramis looked back then, eyes black as the tarpits of hell, and smiled sweetly. “The others already know you distrust me,” he said in a conversational tone. “If you pass some version of that last along...” He clucked his tongue. “‘So _mean_ to poor witless, woebegone Aramis, oh dear. But you can't blame the lad, insecure as he is…’” He shrugged expressively. “Up to you, of course.” He slung his arm over the yellow horse’s withers and they moved away. “I'm glad we had this conversation,” he called over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop scaring the children, Aramis! (Though as happens, Milady and Dolores the Assassin and de Medina all think of Aramis as an enormous marshmallow. Perspective is where you're standing.) 
> 
> Say what you like about fanfic, but this one has been teaching me writerly craft. (I learned why Villains Don't Lie - because the audience learns about the story not just from what characters do and say, but from what they _say happened,_ which holds true for villains also. Complete fabrications get real confusing, real quick, so even a deceitful character will tell a story about the past that's basically true, however highly coloured or incomplete. We can take small additions or changes but trashing the whole thing is a pain. All of which I've been dwelling on because Aramis, while not a villain per se, has a strong instinct for obscuration right now, and it's a misery when I need his information in play so the story can move. So I've been looking for ways for him to slip up, or another character to work things out, or even dropping into his POV more than I normally do so I can at least tell my beautiful readers something straight. I have new respect for villainous monologues, I totally do.)
> 
> “A troop of horse to lose in the hills” - ref. “Hard Roads, Curious People”. 
> 
> “There are places to the north and east of here where there's just... no-one left anymore” - I pretty much kept Aramis and Milady out of the Thirty Years War because it's a) very complicated and b) all the death got me down. Mass depopulation etc. etc. Oh yes, “the pestilence” - at this point Europe is in the grip of the Second Pandemic, an outbreak of bubonic plague that wasn't as bad as that of the Fourteenth Century but was still plenty terrifying. That astronomer guy Marmion and so forth.


	9. "Don't you know I always lie?"

“I'm glad we had this conversation,” Aramis called over his shoulder, sauntering away with one arm draped over the little yellow horse.  
  
D'Artagnan bit back words that would have had his father shaking his head sorrowfully and giving extra chores. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and followed, fishtailing through the horse-lines for a better view. Then he found words that would have given him extra chores for a _year._

“The King wasn't supposed to be here until next week,” he muttered. “This is a bad dream, right? Right?”

But it was not - the pallid sunlight brought out the royal blue with which Louis’ white stallion had been caparisoned and glinted on the gold-washed armour and bejeweled weapons which he considered appropriate for reviewing the troops. And he was talking to Aramis.

“Athos is going to _kill_ me...”   
  
When d'Artagnan had first joined the regiment, a raw youth with ambitions, the soldiers had said that Aramis was one of their few veterans. They'd spoken with hushed voices of the blood baths at the Siege of Montauban and the Isle de Re ten years earlier. At the time d'Artagnan had had difficulty believing it, even after he'd seen Aramis’ collection of battle scars. The older musketeer had laughed at his dubious look and proclaimed anything from good skin and a regimen of paste of almonds, to virtuous living. D'Artagnan had gotten used to it: farmers in the sun aged more quickly he supposed. And Aramis was just… Aramis. But now...     
  
There was something in how he stood, the line of his back or his unexpected thinness, perhaps the way his chin ticked up to show the line of his throat against the white of his shirt collar, that made Aramis look painfully young, his eyes large and black and earnest. He smiled up to Louis. “... God had me in His keeping. But it's… it's good to be among friends, your Majesty.” The light breeze ruffled his loose hair.   
  
Louis smiled down at him, almost paternally - did he even recognise Aramis? - and, leaning over, squeezed Aramis’ shoulder lightly. “You are,” he said. “We'll soon get you back in the saddle, eh?”   
  
Aramis lowered his eyes demurely and Louis guided his white charger onwards, followed by a short train of courtiers.

“I have the profoundest respect for that man’s barber,” Aramis said thoughtfully, as d'Artagnan caught up. “Those curls: magnificent!”  
  
“It's a wig,” said d’Artagnan dryly.

Aramis tutted. “A gentleman does not inquire _too_ closely on such things.”

“I almost thought you were going to collapse in a manly swoon.” Aramis cocked an eyebrow at d'Artagnan beside him, but said nothing. “They did say you had a look of Buckingham.”

A smile quirked Aramis’ mouth. “I'm a little old to play gosling over the long term. When did His Majesty arrive, I wonder?” He shook his head quickly, and rested his hand on the horse’s neck, tangling his fingers in the half-braided mane.

“No, seriously, is that what she taught you? To bat your eyes at royalty?”  
  
“She taught me to _survive,”_ Aramis hissed. “An you love me, don't bring my name up with the king. Let me be pretty, innocuous Aramis, picked up like a stray button and as easily forgotten.”   
  
D’Artagnan stared.   
  
“There is a conversation that starts, ‘So, you were palling around Europe with my ex-mistress, what exactly did she tell you about my preferences in bed?’ As an example. Or the one that goes ‘On the worst day of my life, did she tell you how much I cried?’ Neither of which I want to have.”   
  
“You were there on his worst day.”   
  
“That hardly makes it better,” Aramis said softly. “Cheer up, boy, playing the empty-headed ingenue is hardly the worst thing I've done. That I recall.”   
  
“You’re terrified of him,” said d’Artagnan.   
  
Aramis rolled his eyes, then said, “What was I running from, when I left Paris?”   
  
“I… can't tell you.”   
  
Aramis shook his head again, a quick, irritable jerk, and the little horse snorted as his fingers tightened in her mane.   
  
“You're safer if you don't know! We talked about it!”   
  
Aramis turned on his heel.   
  
“What is happening to those prisoners?” d'Artagnan said, hurriedly but low. “Is that what San Sebastian is? You wanted to know who else Porthos told about it - is that a secret you're chasing?”

“You truly do not let anything go, do you?” Aramis said, smiling over his shoulder. “I can see why you got her attention.”

“What is San Sebastian?”  
  
“The ravings of a man infirm in his wits,” called Aramis. He twitched again, then smiled sweetly. “That’s all.”      
  
"I thought you never talked about -” d'Artagnan tapped his forehead.   
  
"My dear boy, don't you know I always lie?"

His exit would probably have been more dramatic, but as he walked away, hand still fisted in the yellow horse’s mane, his knees buckled, and he folded, quite neatly, to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "a look of Buckingham" - George Villiers, an old favourite of King James I of Britain. Started his career with a nice suit and charming manners, ended it with a great deal of temporal power. Widely believed at the time to have been sleeping with the king. Book!Aramis' resemblance to him was a minor plot point of the book. 
> 
> "... to play gosling..." - doing some weird linguistic backwards engineering from 'gunsel', an insult used in the movie The Maltese Falcon, because the way that particular movie added the meaning 'gunfighter' to a less-than-polite term for a submissive gay man amuses me.


	10. “Bad days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bad language.

A tick of water dropping and his eyes flicked open. Where was he? Warm. Lying on his side. Some kind of pallet underneath and a blanket over him. Aching head.

He scented the air - no smell of wine or other hints of recent debauchery, only the rich aroma of tobacco. Hints of leather, weapon oil, and musk on the rough pillow: a soldier’s bed. His? Perhaps, perhaps not. A hitch in his side like a bee sting - he snuck a hand under his shirt to find the slickness of a half-healed scar nestled among his ribs. Small but tender, it must have gone deep - that would explain why he felt out of breath.

_I?_

That was a question. _Keep going, lad,_ he thought to himself, _the rest will come to you._

Nearby a chair, and in it a man: head bowed, hair wild as a lion’s. A glow of coal in the bowl of a pipe, creak of leather doublet as he moved. Host?

“It took half an hour to get the horse to move,” the man said, with a voice light, mellow, and sharp: velvet over steel. “She was standing over you, chewing on your hair; at times I thought she would bite me.” That was… curious. He kept silent and waited. It felt like all context, history, relevance was almost, somehow _there,_ like a night-black pool beside him. Tickling fish from it might take patience, but he could do that.

The man blew air through his nose. “D'Artagnan was worried for you. And afraid. Over more than the King.” What about the King? Which king was this?

There was a weather-beaten cape of a soft blue shade thrown over the back of the man’s chair, that matched the bedraggled ribbon about his own wrist, like a shared blazon. Promising.

“What did you speak of before you fell, Aramis?” A name - it sounded right. He could be an Aramis. In the meantime he shrugged, which covered a multitude of responses. “What,” the voice grew silky, “did you say to the boy?” He had nothing to say. _“Aramis.”_ There was an air of command there. An officer, captain, maybe, expectant of answers.

Aramis smiled apologetically.

Something changed in the Captain's expression, then, and he said, “Do you have any idea of what I am speaking?” Aramis licked his lips. The Captain shut his eyes. “‘Bad days,’” he muttered.  

“I am sorry,” said Aramis softly, “Captain.”

The Captain shook his head irritably. “It cannot have been this bad all year,” he said dryly. “Can you at least tell me where you are injured?”

“Nowhere...” Aramis hazarded. Scars and headaches didn't count. It was the wrong answer, he saw, as the captain's fingers whitened around his pipe. “I'm a little tired,” Aramis admitted. ‘Tired’ was fixable. The Captain turned, eyes burning, anger gathering around him. Aramis collected himself, ready to move.

Then the other's shoulders pointedly relaxed. “We'll speak of this later.” Aramis nodded.

He had an interesting face. Aramis put his fingers to the man’s scarred upper lip, then moved to the crow’s-feet wrinkles by his eyes. They moved under his touch as the man smiled. “The last time you did that I had just thrown up on you.”

“In a genteel fashion, I'm sure,” said Aramis dryly. The Captain's lips twitched again, then he took Aramis’ hand away and folded it neatly under the blanket.  

“What do you need from me?” Aramis tried. _Soldier? Servant? Lover? Friend? Someone to kill for you?_

“I need you to be well.”

This he could do. Aramis pulled himself upright, then fought for balance as the blood left his head in a rush and his vision briefly blanked. _“Me cago en la leche,”_ he muttered. The Captain caught his shoulder then almost pulled away, until Aramis nodded his head in thanks.

“I'm going to kill her,” the Captain muttered.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “A true gentleman does not hurt women,” he chided. “One finds another way.”

The man looked wretched.

Aramis leaned forward, very slowly, and wrapped a careful arm around the Captain's shoulders. “It's going to be alright,” he said low. There was a familiarity in the tension across the man's back - in the black pool of memory a little fish stirred against his fingers...

“Athos...” he sighed at last, and felt some of the tension release. “Sorry.”

“Piss on your sorry.”

“Athos,” Aramis said seriously, “You smell different.”

“I decline to crawl back inside a bottle for the sake of your nostrils.”

Aramis laughed. Athos’ arm came up around his back, mirroring the embrace, and Aramis rested his chin on the other’s shoulder with a sigh.

“It wasn't this bad all year,” he swore to Athos. “I promise you. We had a lot of good times.”

“What happened?”

Aramis waited, and another fish swam into his hand… “Sword between the ribs, nicking a lung. I got lucky, Athos, so very lucky.” He huffed lightly. “A little fatigue is understandable, no?”

“I do not share your definition of luck,” the other answered.

Then another fish moved in the water, and Aramis found himself afflicted with a kind of double vision: Athos, comrade, ruin, genius swordsman, _brother,_ Athos whose dead wife hurt him and hurt him, balanced against the Comte de la Fere, Madame's husband, the mark she fell in love with, de la Fere who sent her to hang for the crime of defending herself, who _wouldn't even stay to watch her die..._ The bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it back down. Who under the sun wasn't guilty, hm? Disasters happened, and the survivors built their houses on the ash, that was the way the world worked.

“Can you... tell me what you were doing with the King now?”

A fish leapt out of the black pool and Aramis caught it. “Panicking, I believe,” he answered. “Camp gossip said he wouldn't be here until next week.” He hesitated. “He asked how I found the seminary; he knew my name...”

“... You were often at court.”

Aramis nodded. Someone else who knew him by sight and history, and who-knows-what disgraces - how utterly delightful. But Athos wanted an explanation, did he not? And Athos was difficult to say 'no' to. “She told me Louis liked to feel masterful and gracious,” Aramis said at last, “so I gave him that.” He remembered that odd air of challenge in the King's eyes after the amusement at his yellow horse passed into recognition of himself, and the profound sense of danger he felt in that. He had remembered the tricks Madame used to appear harmless and sweet, and used them, wishing he knew more about looking _boring._  

Athos grumbled in his chest. “What else did she tell you?”

Aramis shrugged lightly. “That Louis is always afraid, and that he cannot be trusted. That I'd be wise to avoid the entire royal family, if I could. Except when -” he frowned. But that last day had been an odd one. 

“For once we are in agreement,” said Athos.

"I miss her," Aramis admitted. "Even on a bad day I could always work out what she needed from me. It was easier."

“Aramis,” said Athos, an odd note in his voice, “do you... do you think I _need a hug?”_

“Am I wrong?” Aramis answered, amused.

“Did you do this for my wife?”

“She wasn't one of nature's huggers,” Aramis answered dryly. “I combed her hair sometimes; that was soothing.”

“What else?”

“Mm, stitched wounds? Laced her dress when the maid wasn't available? I killed a bishop for her once - that was enjoyable.”

Athos hissed under his breath.

"There was none of this... hovering around and waiting," Aramis said with disgust, "I was never a -" cripple "never useless to her. I always had a job to do. Waiting and waiting and waiting,” he felt his voice edge on hysterical and firmly reined it in. He forced a laugh. “I've never been good at waiting, Captain; I might as well climb back down to hell and shiver with the devil...”

“What are you waiting for?”

He was difficult to say 'no' to. And Aramis didn't have it in him to pull away. 

"Please don't ask me."

“What are you waiting for?”

Seven ships a-sailing-oh, what a sweet phrase, almost like a child's song. They'd have reached port weeks ago, probably, unless Madame got her message through, unless she was believed, unless, unless...

“Some things are better drowned in deep water, Captain.”

“What are you waiting for?”

If the Minister for War, or the other, knew in time about Sebastian’s arrows, what would they do? Were they ruthless, or would they try and save the human cargo?

“It would only hurt you, Athos.”

“What are you waiting for?”

\- the careful blankness in Madame's eyes as she walked out of that deserted harbour in Spain; the aromatic tang of the thieves-vinegar as she unwound the wrappings from her face and hands, and stripped herself, and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed -

“The end of the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have no reason to believe any historical personages were spreading plague during the Franco-Spanish War. This is fiction.


	11. "Do you remember Savoy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't caught up to "Half-Told Stories" yet, just clarifying.

_Then_

“Do you remember Savoy?” asked Athos.

“The massacre?” asked Porthos, “or that time you spanked the Duke?”

Athos grunted. They were walking their horses up a gentle rise in the road. Tack jingled; birds sang. 

“It was a good fight,” added Porthos. “Got the blood up. I could see your eyes blazing. I wish Aramis'd seen it.” His brows furrowed. “And I wish he hadn't been alone, at the end. I… wish Marsac hadn't convinced him, with that story about Treville.”

“And if Treville’s part in it were more than he told us?” asked Athos neutrally, looking between his horse’s ears. “For reasons of state, say...”

“It was a story,” said Porthos, with a belligerent jut to his jaw. “An’ I know that, because he and Treville were tight as ever, afterwards. I'm sorry he saw his friend die; I wish I'd gone with him and spared him that. But they got to the truth of it, he and Treville, and sorted out that story. Because, Athos, nobody eats something like that and just turns up to work the next day like nothing happened. It can't be done. _It was a story.”_

Athos said nothing. Their horses crested the rise and they saw the cathedral tower of the city of Douai, its grey stone near golden in the sunlight.

“C’mon,” said Porthos, “let's bring our boy home.”

 

_Now:_

Athos held the reins of Jupiter as Porthos boosted himself into the great horse’s saddle. In the frost of the pre-dawn, their breath steamed white and the horse’s heat was palpable; he chewed on the bit as Porthos settled himself, weapons and gear jingling.

“Ride to the port of Le Havre,” said Athos crisply. “Here are letters to change horses at the post stations,” he added, handing them up. “Find out the disposition of the ship  _La Lavia_ _,_ due two weeks ago. If she docked, what became of the passengers; if she was turned away, where to and who ordered it.” He put another paper, sealed in waxcloth, in Porthos’ gloved hand. “If she has not yet arrived then order her to stand off: this _carte blanche_ from Treville will give you authority.”

“In two years you haven't seen fit to use that bit of paper,” said Porthos, tucking it carefully into the breast of his doublet. “What aren't you telling me?”

Athos put his hand on the mounted man's knee. “If there is trouble in the city… use your best judgement. But I need your eyes.”

Porthos glanced to where Aramis, bundled in a black cloak, leaned against the hitching post. He said, face very bland, “Be safe, big man.”

“Athos, we'll speak of this again,” said Porthos lowly.

“Eyes and ears open,” said Athos, “mouth shut.” He slapped the horse’s rump and Porthos cantered off.

“What are you thinking, Aramis?” he asked as they walked back to his command tent, feet squelching in the sodden grass and soft ground.

“That it is very odd to be the one sending and not doing,” Aramis answered promptly, “and that I have friends in Spain.”

Athos raised an eyebrow.

“It isn't just the... sheer rampant lunacy of,” Aramis lowered his voice, “of trying to seed the Black Death in _port_ cities because some committee somewhere thinks God is Spanish and will send it only through France. Or the death that's coming. It's… if anyone thinks, knows that French soldiers were infected to do it, their bodies used like that… that's not something anyone backs down from. I have friends in Spain: a librarian, a court dwarf, a farmer's wife that let us shelter from the storm and made the best fried milk you ever tasted. The soldier who gave me that list. He didn't know what it was, Athos, not exactly, but he trusted me with his country’s honour.”

“You liked him.”

Aramis twitched into a smile, small and secret. “You might say that.”

He swung his arms as they walked and said, “There was talk of peace, in Madrid, just a sniff of it, when we were there. _Christ._ When this gets out, that sniff will be gone like a drop of rosewater in a slaughter house. And I mourn that.” He shook his head irritably. “ _Tchah._ You must think me far too sympathetic to y- our enemies. Forgive me, Athos?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Athos.

“And Athos,” here Aramis turned and said very soft, “thank you for believing me.”

Athos eyed the other cautiously. He had once considered Aramis a tom-cat: affectionate, amusing, and ungovernable, propelled by his own lusts into erratic liaisons and fights, prone to bringing home dead rodents and asking with his eyes for praise. He'd known, distantly, that this was doing the man a disservice, even as he'd loved the cat in him.

When did he become unable to see Aramis as anything but a hurt child?

Before he went away, certainly, long before whatever happened in the prison cell, and the trial, and his declaration that he would give his service to God forevermore. Not before he and the Queen lay together, surely? Athos remembered the white-hot fury burning in him at that time, the seething disappointment that not even in _this_ could Aramis control himself; he remembered the fear. Perhaps, perhaps he'd seen a little of that child when Aramis had run off with Agnes and her Royal son, seen the uncomprehending surprise in Aramis that the others would choose him over politics.

Perhaps a little on a wet summer day, when Aramis had stood in the garrison courtyard and begged them to believe him over Treville. _How much more evidence do you need?_  Athos remembered the other man's eyes that day. And he remembered what Treville had told him when he took on the Captaincy, about the Regiment’s shame and what an officer might be asked - required - to do, for the Good of the State. He remembered what he himself had chosen that day.   

“Aramis. What do you know of Savoy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “fried milk” - I saw it on a cooking show - seems to be wedges of fairly solid custard deep-fried, so there's a hot crispy crust and a cool creamy centre. Sounds yummy.
> 
> “God is Spanish” - “God is Spanish and fights for our nation these days.” attributed to Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, the favourite and chief minister of Phillip IV. Among other policies, he established many junta, semi-autonomous committees. He wasn't, historically, suggesting that maybe discussing the possibility of calling the war with France off was not entirely out of the question until 1639, but show!canon has the war starting earlier, so.
> 
> I almost did a list of all seven ships, but most of the Spanish ships I could find were named after saints and it just felt weird. They aren't truly relevant. 
> 
> Again, the plague plot is entirely fictional.


	12. "Why are you smiling?"

What do you know of Savoy?” Athos asked neutrally, as they walked away from the horse picket.

Aramis blinked, startled. “Not my stomping ground.” He frowned in thought as they paced across the damp earth, then pulled out a rosary, tossed it lightly in his palm, and began to tell the beads.

 _Click._ “The Duke is Victor Amadeus, spent his youth in the Spanish court.” _Click._ “It's a buffer between France and a lot of Spanish tercios in northern Italy that are sitting around fretting for nothing to do.” _Click._ “Take any information the Duchess passes you well-salted: her family loyalties are complex.” _Click._ “Mountainous. Named for its fir trees. Principal exports… do you want to know the principal exports, Athos? It's cold as hell in winter.” _Click._ “Eldest son still a minor...”

“How about the Piedmont? Asti?” Athos asked, and named more provinces and cities down the Italian peninsula, listening quietly to succinct intelligence briefings punctuated by the clicking of what the average churchman would consider misuse of a rosary.

After a time Aramis put it away and began to describe how winter light fell on the roofs of Genoa, the flavours of spices, turns of phrase used by Venetian courtesans, the best way to sniff out bank fraud or find an agreeable simoner. The sweetness and the tang of oranges. “But seriously, Athos,” he added in passing, “don't annoy Savoy, not without a lot of leverage. One wouldn't want to put Her Grace in an awkward position. Now wretched sinner and blasphemer that I am it's impudent of me to have an opinion, but I still believe San Lorenzo in Genoa is the prettiest - why are you smiling?”

“Notre-Dame in Paris is nicer, you'll see.”  

Aramis let out a peal of laughter. “I imagine I will.”

“Breakfast?”

“Of a certainty.” He hesitated.

“There was an outbreak in the poor quarters when Porthos was a child,” Athos said quietly. “He is as close to safe as anyone I know.”

Aramis nodded. “Well then. Breakfast.”

**

Porthos rode into Le Havre at dusk, his latest horse jogging along and pulling at the bit. He'd had no trouble on the road - a band of armed men who might raid travellers in unchancy moments, perhaps, but his size and his wide, peaceful smile had reminded them they loved the law. A flash of his Musketeer pauldron had gotten him through the occasional military checkpoint without trouble. It was easy, smooth. Even the weather of the port city was as kind as it could manage - the fog laid low and the salt winds restrained. And Porthos’ flesh crawled.

They were keeping secrets again, Athos and Aramis. They were keeping secrets from him.

The city was, as far as a port that so often swallowed crews of lonely sailors seeking company, as quiet as it could be. The longshoremen on the docks didn't hunch their shoulders in the way that meant a brewing strike. No open pirates slipping in. No ship _La Lavia_ to be seen. The city was sweet. 

He remembered that time in Venice, startling Aramis on the Bridge of Sighs. Christ, but he was a slick, chilly bastard when he thought you were an enemy. It never looked the same when he was doing it to someone else. And in the end that sharp, smooth mien had been covering what, a bleeding wound? A barrel of powder, primed to explode. A restrained flinch. Someone as lost as he made Porthos feel. Strange old world, eh?

When he'd toured around the docks he trotted up to the harbour master’s office and tied up his horse. The lights were out - only the gentle bob of a nightwatchman carrying a lantern, the swish of a lone woman's skirts walking down the street. Porthos had choices here. He could find the harbour master’s house and roust him out of his bed - which might be satisfying, mind, with someone _else_ in a fuss and a flurry for a change - or he could use his own special brand of opening doors and have a quiet look-see.

Athos was keeping secrets.

He trusted Porthos enough to throw him into whatever mess brewed silently in the port, not enough to explain. Like he'd left Porthos standing next to the pair of them for over a year with the powder keg that was the Dauphin ready to go off, with never enough information to either duck or drag them out of the way. Enough information to send a soldier to die, not enough to - Porthos tamped that thought down hard. Athos had asked for his eyes, hadn't he? He'd asked for Porthos’ _judgement._ That meant something. And hadn't Porthos proven his worth, over and over, in loyalty, in skill… he'd bought his lieutenancy off ransoms fairly won, he'd built himself a name.

He had two options here, but looking down the street at the woman walking away, what was it, something in her stride, a swing about it that was almost mannish? The texture of the light falling on her skirts as she passed the open door of a cabaret - brocade or damask not woollen serge, and yet dark for hard use and sensible wear... It was the wrong kind of dress for a woman around here, for this time of night. Porthos had two options. Instead he followed a hunch. 

Straightening the wide floppy brim of his hat he stole after her, moving lightly on his feet and making up distance when she turned corners and could not turn and see. He cut through an alley, mis-stepped and splashed a great stinking puddle, waited a breath, and then stepped out into her path, looming, his six feet and more of height and the bulk of his shoulders and hat all set to act like a human brick wall. 

It worked - she stumbled back a step at the sight of him, her hood falling down around her slender shoulders and revealing an ivory-pale face, dark hair pinned up in curls, eyebrows like bird wings. She had a hand hidden under her cloak.

She blinked at him, eyes and mouth three 'O's, and then grinned, wide and happy. "Porthos!"

"Constance?"  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed you so much, Constance. 
> 
> And Porthos' floppy hat - I missed you too.


	13. "I'm on uncertain ground."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no swordfights: I feel like I'm doing Musketeers fic wrong. :-( I did scrape out some funding for a new set.

On a foggy street in Le Havre Porthos looked sternly at Madame d'Artagnan, his comrade’s wife, here for unstated purpose. He picked her up and spun her around, strapping girl that she was. “Look at you, Constance, still all fancy,” he said, grinning.

“Hey!” she grumbled. “I dressed _very well_ when I was married to a cloth-merchant I'll have you know, trust a man not to -”

He chuckled and put her down. Then he swept her up again and kissed both cheeks. She sputtered, smiling.

“I'm starving,” she said, wrapping her cloak around her against the chill. “Care to squire a delicate lady to supper and keep off the low company?” He offered an armoured arm and she curled her hand around it, letting her brocade skirts swing. “Porthos,” she said after a moment, “you’re shaking.”

“We found Aramis.”

She made a small sound in her throat, biting her lower lip.

“He found us,” Porthos clarified. “‘Scomplicated.”

Constance tripped on a loose cobble. “He's alive?”

“Yeah.” He should be grinning right now, he knew, but he was maybe a little tired. It was far too early for the shakes, nothing was over, not even halfway. But he was tired. He felt her hand squeeze through the layered leather of his sleeve.

“I need to tell the Queen,” she said at last, gathering her skirts as if to pull away.

 _“Don't!”_ he said, catching her wrist. “It… he hasn't been well. Sometimes it's best to walk a bit careful.”

She looked at him, winged eyebrows furrowed, then nodded decisively. “We can talk about it over supper.”

Porthos nodded grimly. “Food first,” he agreed, “something hot. And then maybe you can explain what the Queen's confidante and private messenger is doing outside the offices I'm looking into.”

“If I said,” she answered cautiously, “that the Queen is endowing a convent nearby -”

“I would ask,” he replied softly, “that you not insult my intelligence. If someone turned you upside down would the harbour master’s book fall out?”

“I'm not lying,” she said, stoic.

“Constance...” Not her, too.

She blew air through her nose, brisk and stubborn. Then she tugged a leather wallet out of her gear. Paper rustled. He took it with his free hand, and recognised the seal and the signature: a carte-blanche from Minister Treville.

“Food first,” said Constance.

***

“... No, in Madrid I was a barber,” Aramis said, dipping his spoon in the steaming gruel.

“A barber,” said Athos blandly, filling his pipe with a plug of tobacco.

“I'm good with knives,” he answered peacefully. “It's a necessary service provided by skilled yet humble personnel. Human furniture, basically. I sat with the court dwarfs and painters at the big events and we all saw _everything._ Oh, and I was half a Franciscan nun. I did the theology.” He sighed. “I wish I'd seen the end of that.”

A shadow, long and thin, fell over them, and d'Artagnan said, “The King expressed an interest in seeing you.”

“Do I have time to shave?” asked Aramis, smiling.

“You're sick.” Anger flashed in Aramis’ face, but d'Artagnan continued, “Camp fever. Gushing from both ends, it's so very sad.” Aramis’ eyes narrowed. “He changed his mind after that.” D’Artagnan shrugged. “It bought some time to, you know, strategise. You're welcome.”

Aramis sketched an elaborate obeisance with his spoon. “I bow to your expertise in such matters.”

A faint, ugly flush coloured d'Artagnan's high cheeks as he said, “You do have friends here.”

“I know,” said Aramis softly. “Thank you, d'Artagnan.”

The Musketeer trailing d'Artagnan, an older man with streaks of grey in his curls, lifted a hand. “Get better soon.” Aramis smiled in thanks.

When they'd gone, he said quietly, “I am on uncertain ground here. If it comes down to it, which way do I move?”

Athos froze. He should tell Aramis, about the trial for adultery. That was what this was about, surely? What other reason could Louis have other than paranoia that Rochefort’s lies grew from a seed of truth? He should tell Aramis. He suddenly, desperately wanted a cup in his hand. A bottle. Three more. He felt a warm hand settle on the back of his neck. “I can close my eyes and trust you,” he heard, “but which way?”

“Don't,” Athos rasped, _Don't catch Louis’ eye; don't remember the Queen; don't lose all judgement about the baby; don't emulate Lancelot and run mad in the woods. Don't fall to love._ “Don't leave.”

The hand squeezed lightly. “I won't. Or if I do I'll come back.”

***

In the noisy common room of the cabaret Constance sipped the last spoonful of onion soup, set the spoon daintily in the bowl, and slid it away from her.

“I used to see Aramis every week or so,” she said. At Porthos’ inquiring look, she clarified, “After I'd gone back to my husband, before the post at the Louvre. In the market, across the crowd, him in his lacy shirts. Sometimes he'd tip his hat but mostly he'd just take a quick peek before going back to the carrots. Checking in, I suppose. And I knew, if things ever got _really_ bad, that I hadn't been forgotten.”

“That sounds like something he'd do,” said Porthos. “Not an ounce of common sense, but he looked after people.”

“Who was it put my name forward to the Queen?” she asked shrewdly.

“D'Artagnan,” said Porthos. “But it was Athos who nudged him.”

“Well that's... huh.”

“He said the Queen needed someone brave and loyal at her side and you needed something serious to do with that steel spine of yours.”

A hot blush coloured Constance's cheeks. “I didn't know.”

Porthos shrugged, awkwardly. “Now you do.”  

"Can you tell me what happened, as you see it?”

So Porthos unwound the tale, of how Aramis had disappeared without a trace then turned up at random like a dropped coin. How he'd fetched up at last tumbled into Athos’ bed with a shattered head, spilling secrets he didn't want to share. Who he'd given himself to while he was away.

“I am entirely unsurprised that with all of Europe to get lost in he attached himself to the baddest of bad luck women.” Constance's lips quirked. “It's what he does,” Porthos went on, “he's worse than a pig after truffles. The Cardinal's mistress, de Chevreuse who was exiled to Spain - that was a bit before your time, Constance - and no offence, your Lady’s lovely, but… And always, there are reasons. Always it's true love. An’ always it blows up in his face and our faces, too, and we're scraping to keep his skin intact.”

“You're angry.”

“Constance, she hurt him. She put him out as bait; she used all his skills for her games; she used him like a hammer and dropped him when he broke. And all he can say is ‘Magnificent woman!’ and grin like it's the greatest joke in the world. And that isn't right.”

Constance eyed his hands, flexing and gripping where they lay on the table. “You're angry he left.”

“That too.” He made his shoulders relax. “It doesn't matter how I feel about it. It really doesn't.”

Constance covered his hand.

“So I showed you mine,” Porthos said at last. “It's time for you to show me yours.”

***

Miles outside of Le Havre, the road narrowed to nearly a track winding among rocks, barely capable of holding the little cart Constance drove. The gibbous moon was high, the salt smell and sea wind came over the brow of the hill. Constance lowered the reins and her cart stopped. “This is your chance,” she said, looking back at Porthos. “You can go back and tell Athos that Herself and Minister Treville have this in hand. This is your chance to turn around and not see.”

Porthos kicked his horse forward and, tack jingling, it worked around the cart and shouldered over the rise. Beyond was a little cove, the water black and the sand grey. Stark in the moonlight, the skeletons of burned ships sagged broken against each other. From a low stone building a little light - a lantern - bobbed towards them.

"This is as far as you go," Constance said behind him. "You can talk to them from here." Sadly she added, "Or I _will_ shoot you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, an unexpected bonus of this chapter was finding out that yes, Porthos and Constance really would put a fraught conversation on hold so they could eat a good meal first. Team Practical, those two. 
> 
> “Look at you, Constance, still all fancy.” - Porthos gets a vicarious thrill every time Constance rocks out her Lower Bourgeois accent while wearing Court dress. 
> 
> "...don't emulate Lancelot and run mad in the woods" - A fairly common motif in chivalric romances, and some of the older Celtic stories, also.
> 
> **
> 
> What almost got written:
> 
> "There was a rumour you slept with the Queen," said Athos. 
> 
> "How credible was it?"
> 
> "It went to trial."
> 
> Aramis choked on his porridge.


	14. “We're practical people.”

Porthos was a canny man, always had been. He knew when he had to be careful with his words and actions, and he knew when he could let himself rage. He wasn't as deft at stitching wounds as Aramis, but he could do it. He could rally a line with a roar, or settle it with a few quiet words; he could do what was fit to the purpose.

So when the good Madame d'Artagnan informed him that she would shoot him in the back if he went too far, he did not waste time fretting.  _ Well played, Constance,  _ he thought to himself, and left his hands where she could see them. “Taking it all a bit serious, eh?”

“We're practical people,” she answered. The lantern bobbed as its bearer came up the path. “Ho the camp!” she called down. “How are you dealing?”

“All the better for a pretty lady come to visit,” the lantern-bearer answered, in a familiar northern brogue. “Did you bring the four-thieves vinegar?”

“That we did,” said Porthos carefully. “Is that you, Lieutenant Grenouille?”

“It's never Porthos!” the man said, a smile hidden in his voice. “The Captain’ll be wanting a report, I'm thinking. Well, we've lost about a third to the Death, there's no dipping that in honey.”

The Death. Four-thieves vinegar, sovereign against plague. Lieutenant Grenouille, who'd been taken in battle by the Spanish and never come back because the prisoner exchanges kept falling through. Aramis and then Athos so very cagy… Much became clear to Porthos in that moment.  

Grenouille went on, assuming Porthos knew everything, “The men on the Maria Infanta missed the miasma, somehow, they're healthier’n horses - we been keeping all the shiploads separate, lad, the five that didn't sink - and you'll get your squad back, probably.”  

“You tell ‘em I ordered them to stay alive,” said Porthos distantly. “Or I'll have them up on charges.” He remembered thinking, when they'd all been captured by the Spanish and he'd been separated out special, that at least they'd be spared the worst of it. Funny how things turn out.

“The last to drop was Sister Kunigund,” Grenouille went on, “that was two days ago. We think it's burning out.”

“Ah…  _ shit,”  _ said Constance. “She was lovely.”

“All the nuns are,” said Grenouille. “I'd marry ‘em all if they weren't... you know. Her Majesty knows how to pick ‘em.”

“What do you need?” asked Porthos.  

“Go home, lad,” Grenouille said kindly. “We've got this. Just one thing - however this turns out? You remember our names.”

“Yeah,” said Porthos, light and husky, “I can do that.”

Halfway between the low convent by the sea and the checkpoint on the road to Le Havre, he said, “Here's good,” and Constance pulled up. He walked off a way, into a stand of trees.

Porthos was a canny man, always had been. He knew when he had to hold himself in; he knew when it was safe to let go. In the moonlight, he picked up a rotting log and threw it. It shattered against a tree. He threw another. And another. He howled to bring down the sky.

***

She came out of the darkness with difficulty, afflicted by dreams of fire and flood. A damp rag, cool against her forehead; the nutty taste of the rim of a wooden cup forced against her teeth. She forced crusty eyelids open and spat out the insipid water. “Enough!” she snarled, hating the kitten-weakness of her voice.

The nurse took the cup away and set it on a small table, saying mildly, “You need to drink or you shall wither like a little prune.”

She showed her teeth to that. Then, the hated fear drove her to ask, “It isn't - I'm not…?”

“It is the wound fever burning you,” the nurse said dryly. “Fear not, you might only die of it. But, now that you are somewhat lucid, what  _ do  _ I call you? A simple ‘Milady’ is inappropriate, given the circumstances.”

“You can't keep me here,” she said peevishly, ducking the question.

“Oh?” The nurse rose stately as a great ship, her brocade skirts swinging, and opened the door of the bare little room. “Shall I lend you a horse? Perhaps a little spending money...”

The patient sagged back against the pillows, eyes venomous. Somewhere in the building a sonorous bell rang and women's voices rose up in a contrapuntal choir. “You, of all people, should not be here.”

“But the weal of this kingdom is ever my business; it is, you might say, part of my job description. That includes ministering to the sick, even those such as yourself.” Gathering her heavy skirts, Anne, Infanta of Spain and Queen of France, sat down on a three-legged stool and smiled, her mouth secret as a rosebud and her cheeks showing dimples.

“Now that you are somewhat awake,” the Queen added, “tell me how Aramis died.”  


	15. “Your report, Porthos?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much plot in this chapter. Forgive me - this is what wanted to get written.

He heard peals of laughter through the rain as he came up to the command tent, the tent that had been retasked as sleeping quarters, lifted the flap to see candlelight and hear his captain say, deadpan, “And then she said, ‘Athos. Wrong donkey.’”

Aramis looked up from a bowl of stewed beans as Porthos came in, and his grin transformed into a smile of great sweetness, which changed in its turn to a flat line. He put down the bowl and stood up, carefully, going to lean against a corner post. Well and so. No-one loves a storm crow.

“Your report, Porthos?”

“La Lavia went down with all hands,” Porthos said quietly. Athos nodded grimly. Aramis crossed his arms, face blank.  

“As did another of the six other ships that you somehow failed to mention...” He watched Aramis’ eyes narrow as he paused to pull up a chair and sagged into it. Porthos found an odd satisfaction in making them wait, a transgressive glee in holding the secrets. He tugged off his gauntlets and held up one hand, fingers spread. “Five of ‘em beached not far from Le Havre. Treville’s orders.”

Athos asked softly, “What of the passengers?”

Porthos shrugged, shoulders tired under the weight of his armour. “We'll get the tally when the time runs out.” _Go ahead,_ he dared Aramis silently, _say something about a miracle._ Lightning sparked under his skin. “Is the boy - dammit - is d'Artagnan around?”

“In attendance on the King.”

“Of course he is.” Porthos rubbed his eyes. “I've a message from his wife.”

Athos nodded, wrapped his winter cloak about himself and left, silent.

Porthos lifted his chin belligerently. “Got any more desperate secrets?”

“Many.”

Damn Aramis for telling them so late. Damn him for telling them at all. He realised he was on his feet again, one fist clenched, and consciously loosened it. _Not his fault,_ Porthos reminded himself again.

Aramis moved to the centre of the tent and stood still, wearing fragility like a cloak. Even under the warm light of the candles he looked ashen, face blank, eyes searching Porthos’ face. _Go on,_ Porthos dared silently, _call me ‘big man’ tonight._

But Aramis said only, “It was a long ride.” He set his fingers to the buckles of Porthos’ scaled jacket, sure and brisk as any armour-bearer.

“Did you do this for her, too?”

“Sometimes. Different gear.” Aramis eased the jacket off his shoulders and set it on Athos’ armour stand.

“Did she pimp you out? You do this for clients?”

“My, the boy was chatty,” muttered Aramis, hair hiding his eyes as he adjusted the armour on the stand.

“Chatty about what?” said Porthos blankly.

Aramis straightened, one hand on the stand, and his head twitched slightly. “It doesn't matter.” He moved forward and Porthos was reminded, once again, of what a stranger Aramis had become, as his eyes roamed over Porthos, measuring, calculating, judging.

He put one hand on Porthos’ chest, light and warm through the linen; the light pressure moved him backwards until his calves barked against the low bunk and he sat down like an axed tree. Aramis worked off his boots and chivvied him onto his side, a blanket pulled up and his head resting on the man’s thighs.

“What do you think you're -”

“Sleep if you like. Or we can talk a little.”

“Anything but the ships.” The storm was still inside him, and the burned ships, and Constance's last message. He wanted to stop thinking about it, to stop holding it all in. He wanted - There was a rustle that might be a nod.

“I gather I wasn't a... chaste man, before,” Aramis said softly.

“Wandered like a tom-cat,” agreed Porthos.

It had been an entertainment, once, trying to work out who his next fling would be, who he was currently with under the layers of persiflage; Porthos had won good money on Aramis’ love life. Then it stopped being funny.  

“Have I misread the situation? Were we lovers?”

“This isn't Italy; be careful who you ask that,” Porthos grumbled. And, “I don't like men that way.”

Would it have changed things if they were? Probably not: Aramis was a wanderer. And the things he came back with… ships and -

There was a hand on the side of his face, the little finger resting at the corner of his eye so he felt it at each blink.  “This isn't something you used to do.”

“No?”

“You seriously cuddled Athos’ murderous wife like this?”

A huff of laughter. “No. With her the first, crucial step in providing comfort was pretending that she did not need it.”

 _“Nosce te ipsum,”_ said Porthos.

Another huff. “Prickles all the way down.”

Porthos started to shake, trembles coming from the core of him. He swore. “I'm supposed to be the strong one.”

“You _are_ the strong one.” A breath. “You did so well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The donkey story involved Constance. 
> 
> "This isn't Italy." - an old euphemism for sodomy was 'the Italian vice'
> 
> "Nosce te ipsum" - 'Know thyself.'
> 
>  
> 
> Plot and revelations and derring-do next chapter, I promise!


	16. “Where do you find these people?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this scene for length.
> 
> There's a short cameo from an old OC. (I liked her, thought I'd give her some more lines.)

“We all get a little tired, sometimes,” Aramis said, still resting his hand on the big man’s face, and felt the bristles of his beard under his palm, and the flick of his eyelash as he blinked. There was a weight to him, a solidity, the muscle of one who bore up under armour and other burdens every day. His beard was longer and fuller than before, Aramis thought, the musk of his hair oil intensely familiar.

Porthos drew in a deep breath and let it out in an enormous sigh. “It isn't over.”

“No.”

“There's a woman name of Constance, mixed up in the other end. You'll like her,” Porthos said, low and fierce.

Aramis smiled behind his moustaches. “I look forward to it.”

“Where'd you get the list of ships, Aramis?”

A breath. “Jeromin de Medina.”

“Jeromin de Medina _d’Austria_? The -”

“Commander, yes. And his life is in a precarious situation right now so: discretion, if you please.”

“Where do you _find_ these people?”

“I was blessed to come across many esteemed and glorious individuals,” said Aramis serenely. “I met you, did I not?”

“Flatterer.”

“They never believe me when I tell the truth,” Aramis mourned, tweaking the rim of Porthos’ ear.

The moment hovered like a drop of dew on a still morning. Then, “Athos and d'Artagnan’ll be back soon.” And despite Aramis’ protests, Porthos lumbered upright, shoulders in his embroidered shirt straightening to take weight, the soft flicker of the candle lantern tracing the crow's feet around his eyes. He grinned a little. "You been sharing scurrilous stories while I was out, eh?"

"Nothing but exemplars of moral fortitude," said Aramis, his hand on his heart. Then he lifted his head a little, eyes distant, and frowned. "Did you hear that?"

The flap that was the tent door stirred. 

"Found you..."

Aramis dove to the side. 

***

"I trust your duties in attendance on His Majesty were not too taxing," said Athos gravely, as they worked their through the sections of the great camp. 

"He's very..." D'Artagnan changed his words from, _very Louis,_  to, "very much a fine figure of a French Monarch."

"Well said," Athos answered, and d'Artagnan grinned, a little proud.

"I don't like the temper of his new bodyguard," he said thoughtfully. Well. Sneering at the Red Guard was a time-honoured tradition for his regiment. But some time during his time on the front, city soldiers had begun to seem far too shiny. There was something in the walk, perhaps - all air and little substance. 

“I took a short trip to Portet-sur-Garonne yesterday.”

Athos looked blank.

“The Curè? Who tried to murder you with a book?”

“... oh. Yes.”

"'Trust, but verify,' I suppose. He had some interesting things to say..." D'Artagnan’s words trailed off as they turned a corner and saw a small tableau outside Athos' tent - a woman in a travelling cloak with masses of chestnut hair spilling out of her hood, and Porthos, down to shirt and breeches, with a sheathed sword in one hand, the other held out placatingly towards Aramis - who had a pistol pointed at the unarmed woman. 

 "Aramis!" called Athos, low and urgent. The other's gaze did not waver from his target, nor did the chased barrel of his tiny pistol. 

The woman stood still, a tiny mocking smile on her rosebud mouth. There was something familiar about her, her smile and her clear eyes: the Princess of Mantua. Who was dead, and actually an assassin, and -

"Louise?" cried d'Artagnan.

"Sofia," corrected Porthos.

"Do- _lo-_ res," the woman said with a pout.

"Her sister," volunteered Aramis. His eyes did not stray from her. "Whyever did you think to come here?"  The gun did not shift.

She said, "Let's stop pretending you can get it up."

He answered, very soft, "Men have hurt their lovers before."

Her lips formed into a sad moue. "Don't I know it."  She walked forward and nudged the pistol down with two fingers. "You killed the Bishop of Vannes and that has endeared you to me some. Can't we all just get along?"

D'Artagnan had a strange swimming sensation of deja vu.

"I would not tell you where she is, even if I could," Aramis warned, head turning to follow her.

"De Winter left you to die in the middle of a forest and yet you guard her?  Where can I buy that kind of loyalty?"

"Milady left you to die?" said d'Artagnan. "Of course she did. Because she _isn't a good person."_

"It's complicated," rejoined Aramis.

"It can't be _that_ complicated."

"So, this Bishop," said Porthos.

"The Bishop of Vannes was a suicide," said Aramis calmly.

"Everyone knows that," added Dolores.

"It was very sad."

Porthos swore.

"And how do you know about the woods?" asked Aramis.

"Oh," said Dolores easily, "I talked to Kitty."

His eyes widened and the pistol came up again. "If you've hurt her..."

"Relax. As of last week she was still baking pies in her new shop. I like to see a woman of enterprise. But _my_ is she chatty, if anyone can trouble to speak her language."

Aramis' face lengthened in horror.

Dolores chuckled low in her throat, gliding back. "But as it happens I am here on other business. I'm a simple messenger girl with nothing but peace in my heart," she chortled.  Something golden flashed in her hand.

He winced. _"Please_ tell me you stole that off him."

She smiled. "I, lie?” She tossed it in a high arc through the air and as he fumbled to catch it, cursing, with his right hand, she dropped a deep courtesy and faded into the darkness.

“How many violent women do you know?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Eh,” said Aramis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Jeromin de Medina d’Austria?” - For people interested in continuity, de Medina appears in “Taken By The Collar 2”, he is discussed briefly in “The Going Down Of The Sun” and “The Way the World Ends 1”, and his name comes up in a conversation with d'Artagnan earlier in Kindness. (This is the first time I've used the ‘d’Austria’ patronymic for him. He's not exactly based on a historical figure, but I've certainly been raiding that guy’s life for details - more on that when he gets another story.)
> 
> Dolores first appeared in "Venice", the sister of the dead assassin Sofia from 2.07, and was referred to in "Nocturne", having made a solid attempt at killing Milady.


	17. "It's... difficult."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of a relationship which Porthos considers abusive, so the language might be a bit triggering. Some talk of premeditated murder.

“So that was Dolores,” said Porthos heavily.

“That was Dolores,” replied Aramis ruefully, the little golden cross in his hand twirling on a cord and catching the light. “If I said that she terrifies me, I would be profoundly understating my position.”

He huffed and held up the ornate little cross for a better look, muttering, “Well, clearly _he_ got home safely. Though I don't entirely approve of his choice of helpers...”

“You still have that?” asked Athos quietly.

Aramis cocked an eyebrow. “Still? It's a pretty thing I picked up in Mantua. I lent it to a friend for luck.” He shrugged. “Some things come back around.”

“That they do. Can you... put that away, for now?” The cross vanished up his sleeve.

“Is Dolores another _magnificent woman,_ then?” asked Porthos, an edge to his voice.

Aramis stared at him. “Did I not just say she terrified me? There's bad blood between her and Madame. It's... difficult. If she catches up with her again there'll probably be blood, so Porthos, please don't help her catch up.”

“Can I be a bit worried that you're still shielding a woman who left you bleeding out in the wilderness?” said Porthos. “Can I be worried about that?”

“She had her reasons,” said Aramis, raising his chin, eyes unreadable in the flickering light of torches. “You know them now.” He didn't look at d'Artagnan.

“Yeah,” said Porthos, “and I s’pect wherever she is now, she's holding out her palm for a pretty penny.”

“And why shouldn't she? Be reasonable, Porthos. One has expenses.”

“Expenses paid in your blood. And what’s this about a Bishop? Been murdering for her, as well?”

“That’s a harsh term; I prefer to consider it ‘easing the way’.”

*

“You know,” murmured d'Artagnan, from the side, “every time he says something like that, it's like Milady is right there, wearing his skin.”

“Such charming tales they tell, in Gascony,” Athos murmured back, frowning.

“I'm a little afraid to ask what else you two were talking about.”

“He swore he did not truly steal the Holy Grail,” the captain answered, “though his reasoning was dubious at best.”

“I'm a bit bothered by that,” said d’Artagnan, crossing himself. Athos shrugged.

*

“Can I ask why?” said Porthos gently.

“You may not.”

“For money, then.”

Aramis’ gaze stayed fixed on Porthos. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Madame disapproves of freebies.”

“And her approval is all that matters, eh?”

“It is good to have.” Aramis opened one hand and smiled, “Or maybe I did it for fun.”

“That’s not something you used to do.”

“Killing for fun?”

“Killing non-combatants.”

Aramis shrugged and smiled. “Not everything that I do is pleasant. God knows better than we can whether it was a crime, a fault, or a meritorious deed.”

“So you're just throwing away all judgement?” Porthos’ growled. “She points and you shoot?”  

“This is what you're jibbing at, really?” Aramis answered, voice tight with frustration. “I had my reasons. They were good ones. Mother-of-God, is there an iota of privacy in this world?”

“Did you truly have your reasons, or did _she_ feed you a story so you'd do a nasty job for her?”

“I planned it over two and a half days,” said Aramis mildly. “And then got lucky on the first try - I was very pleased. Would you like to hear how I... eased the man’s way?”

*

“Athos,” said d’Artagnan carefully, “I talked with the Curè of Portet-sur-Garonne. I talked to him.  Someone who tried to kill _you_ got a shoulder to cry on and a request not to do it again.”  

“Aramis had barely come back to us at the time. Your point?”

“If you haven't noticed that he thinks you two hung the moon...” D’Artagnan shrugged. “I'm just saying, I'm inclined to believe he had his reasons and let it go.” At Athos’ sardonic stare he bristled, throwing up his hands. “I still don't trust him more than I can throw him, but… the old man lived. Maybe we should let this one go.”

Athos gazed, troubled, at the argument. “He has been throwing his recent activities in our faces from the start. Maybe we should let them have this out.”

*

“... And that was that,” Aramis was saying, eyes locked on Porthos.

"So you made it look like a suicide so nobody would think to come after you,” said Porthos. “That's... neat."

Aramis laughed, short and clipped. “Please. An ‘accident’ would have been far quicker and easier. I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?” Porthos’ voice was almost pleading. “Or did she sell you a story so you'd do murder for pay?”   

Aramis tsked. “That part was a freebie, big man. And yes, I knew what I was doing. You have some odd notion of me as a hapless pawn, beset by the wiles of a wicked enchantress. Porthos, I planned out that easement all on my own and when it was done I went home and slept like a milk-drunk baby. That was all me.

“I came back dirty, I came back mean, the shattered pieces of your friend that you tiptoe around, so cautiously. Or maybe,” he added, soft as a silken garrotte, “maybe - have you wondered? - maybe he was always that way, and you just… didn't notice.”

He looked away. “Sorry, _sorry.”_

“I've wondered,” said Porthos levelly. “He packed a lot of secrets behind the capering. But Aramis? He was always my friend.”

Something sagged in Aramis. “Am I your friend now?”

The moment hovered between them, fragile as a dew drop.

“I've... brandy in my tent?”

“Bless you, Porthos.”

A boot crunched on the ground and they all turned to see a man, hard-faced but handsome, in the uniform of a Red Guard, sauntering towards them.

"You must be the famous Aramis," he said, smiling. "You're looking well." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought, when I started this story, that all the big blow-ups would be between Aramis and Athos - look at the temper on him, after all. Instead he keeps rolling over, saying, ‘I'm just so glad Aramis is back’ and it's poor Porthos getting his buttons pushed, and his morality offended, and his feelings trampled on. I think I owe the s3 writers an apology for being cross with their Aramis-Porthos dynamic. 
> 
> "God knows better than we can whether it was a crime, a fault, or a meritorious deed" - lifted from Twenty Years After, with Aramis discussing the lynching of Milady. 
> 
> The Bishop was alluded to in "Answer and Question" - I need a better name than Vannes, because it messes with my naming scheme. 
> 
> I don't know how much Dumas thought it through, but the theme of vigilante justice, or lack of justice, pops up a lot in the books - not just that final lynching, but Athos hanging his wife when he saw the criminal brand, the branding itself, the (actually pretty plausible) tale of abuse Milady tells Fenton to motivate him to kill Buckingham... I think there can be a great sense of frustration and anger, knowing a Very Bad Person has the ability to shelter away from legal retribution. On the other hand, if you do something yourself, what does that make you? And... what if you were wrong? 
> 
> Also, ffs, don't discuss premeditated murder in public, Jesus, honey, don't do that.


	18. "Sufficient unto the day..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - I've been a bit busy.

“You must be the famous Aramis,” the new man said. “You're looking well.”

“But not magnificent?” Aramis quipped, “Tut, I feel desolate.”

“It must have been your recent _illness,”_ the man said, smiling slightly. He was handsome, in a hard-faced way, with short-clipped hair and a neat beard. His garb had both function and ornament, black with touches of what was probably red in the sunlight, and he carried the weight of his sword with familiar ease.

“You are a long way from Paris’ streets,” said Athos, with the quiet disdain of a serving soldier to a townie.

“You know how it goes - a Royal Bodyguard follows the King,” he replied, smiling.

Athos remained still, but Aramis suspected he was bristling inside. “How can the Musketeers help the Red Guard at this late hour, Captain Marcheaux?”

“Not the Musketeers so much as this one,” Marcheaux said, gesturing to Aramis. “The King desired his presence days ago. If he's quite well now,” he opened his arms wide, “the Royal desire is my command.”

“It's late,” said Athos. Porthos loomed beside him.

“Not that late,” said Marcheaux. “Shall we go? Before he gets _sick_ again.”

***

“They won't thank you,” said Milady de Winter, hunched under shawls against the autumn damp and picking irritably with her spoon at the bowl of bread sopped in warm milk. It was food fit for invalids and children, without any spice to interest the palate, and she did not blame the woman for lacking appetite. Yet, she needed to eat.

“If you finish that, I found a few coffee beans in the Mother Superior’s private supplies.”

De Winter frowned, pettish still. “They won't thank you. Any survivors of San Sebastian. They'll be angry, and you're disliked to start with. Either you planned it, they'll say, or you're covering your brother's arse.”

She tried not to wince at the crudity. “I am aware. Am I supposed to let them die for that?”

“The Cardinal would have.”

“If I can get through life without ever being compared to that, that _man,_ I will die happy.”

De Winter stared at her, eyes intent, like some strange savage beast wrapped in a nightgown, the spoon half-lifted like a forgotten wand. “He loved France,” she said suddenly, “and he knew politics like a whore knows fucking. Don't let yourself be _stupid_ because you disliked a dead man.”  

She couldn't hide her wince that time. “Eat your milksops.”

“They're nasty.”

“Be brave,” she answered witheringly. Then, “Did you poison him, at the end? He went so fast...”

“And here I thought you did,” the other said. “It would have been a prudent, housewifely thing to do.” The talk of murder seemed to have cheered her up and she dug her spoon into the sodden bread with more interest. “The good Madame d'Artagnan was coming back today, was she not?” she asked, tilting her head like a bird.

“Do you miss her company?”

“I'm just curious.”

“She was due yesterday. It was... probably bad roads and worse weather. A minor delay.”

“Without a doubt.”

***

It was dangerous to be caught in a lie.

Aramis didn't fault the boy. He had himself come up with excuses far wilder than a case of dysentery in an army camp when scrambling for space in a conversation. And Aramis had made a point of staying to quarters inside the Musketeer encampment since his convenient illness. Dysentery was far from implausible. Still, he'd have appreciated a few minutes with a maquillage box to look a little more wan and recently ill before bluffing this out.

Walking through the camp at night, through the areas held by different forces, around moments of carousing or planning a night expedition, touring around tents and stores, the sound of someone quietly weeping, he found himself thinking of what must have been his earliest, peach-fuzz, days in the army: slender and girl-pretty, honing his bravado with lethal tricks and calculated effrontery. The big man hadn't been there yet. Instead, he and Marsac had - well, wherever Marsac had got to, Aramis would save it for later. _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof…_ (He wondered what he'd been mourning.)

The Red Guard kept his arm slung across his shoulders, easy and companionable and utterly false. (Aramis knew a snake when it walked beside him.)

“Are you sure we haven't met?” Aramis asked pleasantly. He had a terror, not so much of getting lost, but of being found _by the wrong person,_ of coming out of a blank to find he'd cheerfully helped someone who compromised the last principles he might have had. (His travels with Madame did not apply to this: dirty as her hands were, his soul had been safe in them. The Captain did not understand that yet, but he would.)

“No, not at all.” The Red Guard smiled. (The arm on his shoulders was a gift, really, he was already inside the man’s fighting range.) “I entered d’Essart’s Guards not long after you left, though. They used to call you a veritable Joseph.”

“A wise interpreter of dreams,” said Aramis. “My word.”

“Mm,” said the Guard, grinning. (His leather might have metal plates set in. Dangerous to risk a knifing. Stamp on the instep to start, turn in with the movement - ) “Something like that.”

Aramis was aware of the silent soldiers behind him, trailing wide like the fan of a peacock’s tail, shrugging blue cloaks onto their shoulders like birds mantling feathers. It was dramatic, flamboyant, a show of the elite soldiers of the army in rough procession in front of their lessers. It was the kind of intimidating display that could provoke an unsatisfactory response by its simple existence. (There was a reason he and Madame carried visible weapons so rarely.) It was ridiculously warming.

The boy - d'Artagnan - had been unable, or unwilling, to explain why the King wanted him. A whim? Advice on hair care? A return to… whatever it was that had sent Aramis fleeing Paris and changed the Regiment’s status from favoured Royal Bodyguards to front line wolves, to whatever dire event that had the big man’s face close like a fortress gate and the Captain go still as a hunted rabbit. (What did Aramis _do?)_      

They reached the royal tent. In the daylight it would be a joyous edifice of banners and flags, built large enough for multiple apartments and audience chambers. In this dark, damp night it loured broodingly, blocking the stars. A few of the inner rooms had people still awake within, the amber glow of their candles showing through the canvas. 

The Red Guard, Marcheaux, nodded to a brocade flap and pushed lightly on his shoulder. "In you go."

***

She scraped the last of the insipid morsel from the bowl and swallowed. "There. Now bring me some coffee." Aramis had been better at procuring real food, the last time she was ill. Madame d'Artagnan, when she was present, could bring at least a little flavour to sick room food. (And when did she get enough experience of being tended to compare, eh?) Not that she cared about little Constance, with her bright and shining eyes. She didn't hate her, maybe. At this time of year, it was a miracle anyone got anywhere, let alone on time. She was probably waiting out a rainstorm somewhere. 

The Queen watched her, effortlessly serene in her sober blue dress. 

There was something else missing, and as long as she was curious...

"Where is his little... Majesty? Why isn't your son with you? Afraid I'll eat him?" She clashed her teeth amiably.

The Queen's rosebud lips thinned. "He is with his father."  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “They used to call you Joseph” - as in the Bible story. As a young slave in Egypt his mistress Mrs Potiphar wanted him to sleep with her. When he refused she accused him of rape and had him chucked in prison, where his interpretation of dreams eventually caught the eye of the Pharaoh. ‘Joseph pursued by Potiphar’s Wife’ was a popular artistic theme in the 17th century. And I'm bringing this up because book!d'Artagnan looked upon Aramis as a Joseph. (Whether as a wise dream interpreter and counsellor or as a pretty boy, the book does not divulge.) Also, Marcheaux is a troll. 
> 
> “his earliest, peach-fuzz, days in the army: slender and girl-pretty” - I saw Santiago Cabrera in Empire, made when he was a bit younger: the phrase “But how could anyone want to kill you, you're so beautiful,” was used entirely without irony. 
> 
> “There was a reason he and Madame carried visible weapons so rarely.” - and it's easy to pick up weapons in a fight. People practically _give_ them to Aramis...


	19. "It can wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind: this chapter has been difficult to write.

Porthos closed the collar of his armoured jacket as they walked through the midnight camp, shrugging his blue cape more neatly on his shoulder. “How is he?” he asked.

Athos considered. “Unpredictable. Tightly wound. Fragile. You were right when you said ‘Be gentle.’” He passed over Porthos’ answering scowl. “What aren't you telling me about your journey to Le Havre?”  

His shoulders knotted up.

He pulled his bandanna off his head, ran broad fingers through thick curls, and knotted the cloth again.

Porthos looked ahead to where Aramis walked ahead with the Red Guard, a possessive arm across his shoulders as if they were friends, or he was a child, or property, and where d'Artagnan loped to the side, thinking like a flanking skirmisher with his squad pacing by him.

“Constance was there,” he said eventually. He watched Aramis disappear through the flap of the King’s tent, the Red Guard’s proprietal hand on his shoulders. D'Artagnan slipped in after. He sighed. “It can wait.”

** 

His Majesty rested in a high and comfortable chair, a quilted brocade dressing gown wrapped around a nightshirt of fine cambric adorned with white-on-white embroidery and delicate cut-away. Gorgeous. (Somebody cared, either for Louis personally or the pride of dressing him: there was leverage there.) He blinked sleepily over a goblet of steaming wine; he seemed to have forgotten what he wanted Aramis for, if he ever knew.

Perhaps a bedtime story. _It was late enough._

Beautifully warm as it was in here, sleep was dragging him down like a dark sea. (It did not do to yawn in front of royalty, however long one's day: they might think one did not pay close attention.) … He stood ‘at ease’, hands loosely clasped behind him, and flexed his calves, one after the other, to keep his blood flowing vigorously. It was a soldier’s trick, or a courtier’s. (He did not always know where he had learned something.) A simple rosary dangled in his fingers and he counted, with the beads, what he knew of the King. _Click._ Lost his father at a young age; mother fond of politics in the Italian style. _Click._ Resented, yet sought the approval of, the Cardinal, and must have been thoroughly rudderless after the man slithered off to hell. _Click._ Madame thought him timorous, random, and dangerous; he liked to be praised. _Click._ Uncomfortable around clever women; capable of sweetness and had fed Richelieu medicinal cordial when he was on his sickbed… was there anything to use in there?

 _Click._ He had a sudden notion of the coup that dethroned Marie de Medici, move and countermove laid out dry as an account of the little war that was a game of chess - a flurry that ended with an advisor ripped apart, his wife burned, and the foreign queen separated definitively from her erratic son, who sought ever after for someone to lean on, someone to tell him what to do. Hm.

There was a man painfully lounging beside the King, one long leg stretched out and an ebony cane gripped in his left hand. He had a long clever face which Aramis liked instantly and regretfully, with the velvet dark eyes and luxurious black hair shared by the King and all others of the Bourbon line whom he had encountered. (Elizabeth-now-Isabella preferred Spanish black, unlike the bright blues and teals these two favoured in their dressing gowns; Queen Henrietta, when he had glimpsed her, shouted red, white, and blue; another sister, he believed, wore yellow.) The new favourite? Hmm. 

He flickered a glance at the Red Guardsman, Marcheaux, who stood at attention and stared at the other man as a gladiator might his emperor. Aramis did some quick calculations and concluded his other host might be Feron, the King's cradlecurst brother. Was that bitter laudanum whiff coming from him, then? (Cough medicine, pain relief... dreams?) He could hear the Captain and the big man outside, arguing with the door guard. D'Artagnan lurked at silent attention to the side. He sensed solidarity from that quarter, but then, the boy did not control the room.

Aramis was aware that there was much of the serpent in his own nature: he was very comfortable slipping through the shadows of cool grass, or arrayed in the heat of a sunny rock, shaping himself to the circumstance. _Look at my scales, so bright, like jewels. I don't bite_ , he thought, _not at all. Well, hardly ever. So what do you want, little king? What do you need? For I do not think it knowledge..._

“Your Majesty I was in seclusion for a time, a course of meditation and purification of the spirit,” he answered a query. It was as good an answer as any he could muster. Perhaps the King would have preferred something florid and fanciful like, _Carried off by the Queen of the Fairies,_ or, _Cuddled up with Merlin in the hollow of a fir tree,_ though he seemed to find Aramis’ tale of a monastic retreat amusing enough. (His reputation for libertinage must have been a thing to behold.)

The King wanted to know about Venice. Ah. Aramis had mentioned being there the last time they encountered each other because he was apparently _incapable of keeping his mouth shut_. Aramis spun a brief tale of travelling in the service and for the protection of a gentlewoman in straitened circumstances. (Which wasn't a lie, thank you very much, except for the 'gentle' part.) Louis didn't want to know her identity, thank Christ. Were Venetian courtesans pretty? (Yes, but this was a very minor attribute of a glorious group of women.) He curbed his irritation. 

All the while Feron watched him, humour and bitterness in his long face, interjecting at times, with the air of one poking at rocks with a stick to see what skittered out. (Aramis still liked him, but the liking would be more if the poking were less.) Could it be he didn't know why Aramis was here either? He was going to have a good laugh about this meeting later... assuming he survived, that is. 

He spun a few minor tales, nothing incriminating, letting the words sing to themselves. He didn't waste the beauty of the roofs at sunset on His Majesty. Somehow he did not feel they would be appreciated.  

Something sparked in the King's eyes and he sat a little straighter. Had he remembered what he wanted Aramis for, then? (Oh no, was this really about desirability? Despite any unkind things the boy and the big man might have said, seduction was far from Aramis' first choice to deal with a tricky situation. Personal considerations aside it often made things more complicated than less. And, he did not want the Captain to see that.) 

A rustle of curtains and a small child trotted out of an inner chamber, with tousled russet hair, in a long cambric night-shirt that matched the King's. About three, he seemed healthy and happy and, cuddled on His Majesty's lap with his head tucked under the man's chin, thoroughly adorable. Moving on.

The King was watching his face intently, expecting... something and Aramis simply did not know what to give him. He was, he was tired, the strength falling out of his traitorous body into a black sea, he was fighting in the dark as he had all year and he was tired.

A sharp pithy phrase and the Captain entered, expressionless, the big man following, uniform capes draped elegantly from their shoulders.

He found himself falling into that still, calm place he came to sometimes, in three-on-one fights, or waiting hours to make a shot, or when he needed not to think. There was no gentleness in that place but much peace. 

Aramis smiled at the King. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Constance was there,” he said eventually. - trying to integrate this scene into the narrative has been driving me batty. I'll put it in a side story. 
> 
> “Carried off…” - Aramis is probably thinking of Tannhauser and the Venusburg, here. Some versions of the King Arthur (and Lancelot) tales have Merlin the Enchanter held captive in a crystal cave, in some he's caught in the hollow of a tree lost in the wilderness. 
> 
> "Perhaps a bedtime story. It was late enough." - it's been a long, multiple-chapter evening and he's in need of a nap himself. He's a bit cranky.
> 
> "a flurry that ended with an advisor ripped apart, his wife burned" - Concini and Galigaï, briefly touched on in Half-Told Stories. 
> 
> "Elizabeth-now-Isabella preferred Spanish black" - Elizabeth Bourbon, Madame de France, who married into Spain in the same deal that hitched Louis and Anne.


	20. "Your Majesty?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is on the long side, I'm afraid. 
> 
> CW: Athos has some negative thoughts consistent with his bad moments in show canon. Aramis' head is not a happy place. Mental health issues for everyone!

Athos walked into the chamber and Aramis was lying.

His friend stood, stable and relaxed, on the jewel-bright rug in the centre of the King’s private section of the palatial tent. His hands were clasped behind him, a string of beads moving idly in his fingers, and he lied, with fluency and cheer.

Athos recognised the stories, pieces of them. They'd worked through a rough timeline of where Aramis had been, in the last year - the city-states of Italy, mostly, and flea-hopping up and down the Spanish Road. He knew much of what Aramis had _done,_ now, though the man's motives usually dwelt, like an untold joke, silent in his black eyes.

He _thought_ he knew what Aramis had done. Now, hearing his travels cut to pieces and sorted, and all the brightest scraps restitched to make a garment fit for a King, the coat of an adorable fool - not an ounce of harm in him as he fell into another canal or landed in some other improbable misadventure - Athos... wondered.

Wondered if the late-night talks and the self-deprecating humour, the tact when he mentioned his wife, the grudging confessions of pain - that sense of building trust - wondered if they were all tailored for _Athos,_ a coat that a wary man might make to please his host.

 _Thank you for believing me,_ Aramis had said, like a hurt child, and Athos had felt so warm for it.

He remembered the trial of Ninon de Larroque, and the lies ‘Madame de la Chappelle’ had spread there, with that flicker of hurt in her eyes, that hesitance in her voice so much more convincing than smoothness.

 _The best lies,_ Aramis said yesterday, with the air of a quote, _are the truth set turnabout and polished bright and sharp._

He felt ill.

Porthos stirred beside him, the big man light on his feet but less than easy.

No.

There had been nothing of pleasing, earlier, when Aramis had told them of his dalliance with premeditated homicide. He'd kept back something, yes - that was probably his Madame's presence and Athos… didn't want to think about why that was. Aramis had refused to talk about the _why._ But the _how?_ He hadn't spared Porthos a single finicky, sordid detail, not though the man had near begged him to.

Athos doubted his own judgement often.   

But that Aramis wanted the big man to think well of him? That was beyond doubt. Ergo, he saved the truth for _them,_ even if it hurt.

 _I can close my eyes and trust you,_ he'd told Athos days ago and Athos had let him walk into this blind. Damn d'Artagnan for not letting him know about the Dauphin’s presence.  

The boy in the King's lap reached up to tug at the great pearl that dangled from the man’s ear, and Louis smiled down at little Louis, small and secret and real. Aramis scarcely glanced at the child and made a joke about performing monkeys that had the King laughing out loud, both rows of teeth showing white.

Athos prayed silently, to a God he scarcely believed in, that he'd done the right thing.   

**

Oddly enough, what Porthos felt most was nostalgia. It’d been... years since he'd seen Aramis blither in front of an audience with this much intent. The two of them used to take themselves off to the salons - the Hotel Rambouillet and others, where conversation was taught as an art and literary analysis was a blood sport - and socialise with the daintily-dressed dragons who gathered there. Sometimes to attract a monied patroness, it was true, and sometimes… Porthos, fresh out of the rough ranks of the infantry, had eventually realised that his lethal new friend simply enjoyed the company. (He had been entirely unsurprised last week, finding Aramis chatting with laundry-women and whores.) Odd to see him like this here though - Aramis who bent his neck to no man, deferring to Louis as if he were a _saloniere_ to be amused.

Anyone could see he was turning chalk-white under the tan, even in the warm candle light. Anyone but the King, that is, lured into sharing an anecdote about hunting, cuddling Aramis’ kid like a pe- he stopped that cold, too dangerous even to think it. Aramis laughed silently at the end of it and the King near glowed, his wit confirmed.

Aramis twitched his head again, just a little, in the middle of a story that owed a little much to the _Decameron._ His fingers in the rosary stopped.

**

The second time d'Artagnan saw Aramis make that little head twitch, he thought, _He's going to drop._ The third time, he thought, _If he does that here, he'll hate it._ Even if it would add verisimilitude to a narrative d'Artagnan himself had patched together hurriedly - the sudden illness - Aramis would _hate_ it.

No-one tells the King an interview is over. He shifted uneasily.

The King’s illegitimate brother said something sweet about an Italian called Boccaccio that clearly had a hook in it for people who knew the fellow. Aramis responded, mildly, with an innocuous comment about unfortunate shipwrecks in Genoa and Feron, _bloody_ Feron shut his mouth, just like that. (Aramis was now d'Artagnan's favourite person, honestly. It had been a snark-ridden few days, in attendance on the King and his brother.)

The curtains stirred and a page trotted in, to whisper in the King's ear. Louis rolled his eyes. “Very _well,”_ he said peevishly. He kissed the top of the Dauphin’s curly head and said, softly, “Back to bed now, son.” He handed the armful of child to the page, who sagged under the weight and trotted out, the boy waving drowsily over his shoulder.      

**

Aramis blinked, in a tall-windowed chamber, iron on his wrists, explaining to a row of judges that God was in the room.

He blinked again, back in the King's pavilion. Probably. He'd been getting more flashes, recently, moments from his past laid before him whether he wanted them or not. (Worse when he was tired.) He kept his breathing calm.

Athos and Porthos remained stone-faced and blank, the Red Guard Captain (what was his name again? Aramis elected to go with ‘Sparkles’) looked sour. The King, sleepy and relaxed - mission accomplished, it seemed. Feron was still watching him, consideringly. Alright, it had been fun sparring with Feron, even if he'd gotten lucky with the wreck of the _Severus_  - the man was witty.      

When did the child disappear?

He blinked again, lying on his side under a blanket, aching, a sharp medicinal smell filling the room. In the soft glow of a single candle Madame measured precise portions of white powder into each bottle of a crate of wine. He did not think it medicine. When she saw him awake she raised an eyebrow, daring him to speak. He licked his lips and the tang of blood filled his mouth -

“- to review the troops tomorrow?” The boy's tone was solicitous. 

"Soldiers always show best for their Commander-in-Chief when it is early in the morning," said the Captain, very dry.

"Well known fact," said the big man. "I often remarked on it, when I was a ranker."

“Yes, yes,” said the King, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He eyed Aramis thoughtfully. “And you, get some rest. You look dead on your feet.”

“My health has been delicate of late,” Aramis offered. He placed his hand on his breast and bowed: it seemed the thing to -

\- The emptiness of the dead battlefield was no emptiness at all. Corpse-pickers - crows, wolves, wild dogs, the women and children who raided soldiers’ leavings - flocked among the recent dead. “You don't -” pound - “mark -” pound - “a woman's -” pound - _“face.”_ Madame pulled back her slender white hand wrapped around the steel-silver band of a knuckleduster. She sniffed back the blood leaking from a red and swollen nose. The war-profiteer rose up again, his rings glittering, indomitable, three bullets in him and Aramis was out of pistols. He -

\- came out of his bow. The King shooed him gently. The end of the meeting, then. He backed away politely. The men in blue capes moved to follow. He heard a rustle of curtains behind him.

“There's just one more thing,” the King said thoughtfully, cocking his head. Aramis raised his eyebrows politely. “Where were you last month, exactly?”

“Your Majesty? I -” He swallowed.

\- The Captain, rain-sodden and furious, gripping his shoulders - the sun was hot on his back, below his vantage on the Bridge of Sighs the big man accused him about Douai -

What month was it now?

“I -” He hesitated.

“He was with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Odd to see him like this here though - Aramis who bent his neck to no man, deferring to Louis as if he were a saloniere to be amused.” - Yes, Porthos is aware this is screwed up. 
> 
> “what was his name again? Aramis elected to go with ‘Sparkles’” - And d'Artagnan stops complaining about being nicknamed ‘the boy’ ever again…
> 
> “The war-profiteer rose up again, his rings glittering, indomitable” - I'm sorry, but I have no place for Grimaud in my end game. If it helps, it was a really epic fight, with lots of sudden reversals and ‘Thank God he's finally dead, oh crap he isn't’ moments.
> 
> \- Madame measured precise portions of white powder into each bottle of a crate of wine. - a) book!Milady sent poisoned wine to d'Art at La Rochelle and b) in this verse we see a slightly earlier part of this scene in "Care and Feeding II", and when Athos asks, in "Half-Told Stories", which French regiment was involved in beating Aramis into the ground, he answers "That's not a useful question" because he's pretty sure they're all dead. (Milady has a 'scratch one of mine and I feed you to the crows' policy.)


	21. "Easy, Aramis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Not done with mental health issues. 
> 
> Some allusions to the Taken By The Collar arc.
> 
> I write d'Artagnan in a poor light here. Sorry, bud, you're helping me out of a continuity snarl. Thanks for taking one for the team.

“He was with me.”

A man of average height, blond, in well-cut but travel-stained black, strolled into the chamber.

Aramis blinked at him.

The corner of the man's mouth moved slightly. A few stiff men with the air of retainers filed in after, and a woman with knowing eyes and masses of chestnut hair falling out of her hood hovered near the back. Athos met Porthos’ eye: _Dolores the assassin._  

“De Medina,” sighed the King, tilting to rest his head against the carved back of his chair, “it's too late for this. I'm tired, you must be tired, diplomatising can _wait.”_

Ah. Something else d'Artagnan hadn't mentioned. The boy caught the edge of Athos' stare and quailed.

“An intimate family gathering,” said Feron, amused, wrapping his fingers around the ebony handle of his cane. “And how did our loyal Frenchman find himself in the company of a commander of Spanish armies, hmm?”

“Senor Caballero Aramis conveyed a message on behalf of the Jesuit order, or perhaps the Franciscans, I forget, begging that we might consider discussing peace between our two Catholic countries and cease forthwith the effusion of blood.”

Feron’s eyebrows climbed his long face. “And what say you to that?”

“Any man can deliver a message,” Aramis said neutrally.

“Yes, yes,” said the King, waving his hands. He stared at Aramis’ face for a long moment. “No canals to fall into in Madrid, eh?”

“It was a river,” volunteered de Medina. Aramis said nothing.

The King sighed lightly and shook his head. “You do get around. Now shoo, shoo, it's late.”

“I know my catechism,” said Aramis faintly.

“I'm sure you do. Go.”

**

Aramis turned to go because de Medina had cut his bonds and cleaned the blood off his hands but was throwing him to the hounds anyway there was a grave in his future with all the bodies to hide in -

The soldiers moved around him, solid, skilled men, herding him to the outdoors. More room to run, perhaps.

\- crawling out of the space set aside for dead soldiers, with the dust burning his nostrils and eyes, and the crushing need to _apologise_ to the men lying so still in the whiteness, the books yet unbalanced -

He moved with them. Best not to make a fuss until one really needed to.

\- holding himself over a fair-haired woman, her eyes black with desire and her skin sweat-slick, knowing he was trading false coin because what she wanted was to be _loved_ and he could never give her that and he, he couldn't breathe -

Knife up his sleeve, another in his boot. A small burning pain in his side. They moved with the grace of natural predators and it wouldn't be easy. Bodkin up through the jaw would take one, probably, before they realised what was happen-

One touched his wrist, very lightly. “Easy, Aramis, everything's fine.”

Despite himself, his shoulders relaxed. The big man. In blue. The same blue as the ribbon on his wrist. _At his side._

\- the Captain's hands so gentle in his hair - waiting in a cold and stinking darkness with the sound of an animal about him and waiting and waiting - Madame's clever hands taking the rough maps of fortresses they'd garnered and redrawing them hidden in pictures of butterfly wings, a skill she valued only for utility but it was beautiful - a coronation in a tiny, mountainous kingdom on the Spanish Road, the crown less glorious than the Queen's flaming hair - the Bishop of Vannes’ doughy hands around Madame's throat and she wasn't defending herself - the big man kissing a pistol and grinning and the exhilarated fondness he felt then - wrapping de Medina’s slight, solid form in his arms before muttering “Hold tight” and jumping into the bright blue air - the thrum of Jeromin’s pulse under his thumb - a fair-haired woman sleeping in his arms and he wanted, he wanted -  

“There was a child,” he told Porthos earnestly, and collapsed in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the last of braingravy!Aramis, by the by.
> 
> Next chapter should be up in a couple of days.


	22. "... I am grateful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a very small epilogue, but this is basically done. I'll be picking up "Girl Talk" and "Half-Told Stories" after a short break to catch my breath. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He came out of the darkness to a tight band, vice like, around his ribs, and a great heated mass at his side, and his arm draped over it so he dangled, willy nilly, his feet bumping over uncertain ground. The heat was rumbling, a steady stream of words, gentle and strong as a thrown rope. “Easy now, Aramis, we're all friends here, everything's fine, right Aramis, I'm just going to set you down at least you're not puking, eh?”

“Porthos,” he muttered, blinking hard. The man lowering him to the ground paused and said, “Yeah, that's me, Aramis.”

“No, _I'm_ Aramis,” he replied and surprised the big man into a laugh. He sat them down, their legs folding up and seemed content to let Aramis cling, shrugging half out of his armoured jacket that Aramis might soak up warmth through the linen of his shirt. “Does wrath still dwell in your heart?”

A hesitation. “People are complicated, yeah? When you have your strength back I'll yell at you good and proper.”

“I look forward to it,” Aramis answered, smiling. “The child...” he said uncertainly.

“... Yeah,” said the big man. “We didn't want to say. Sorry.”

“It was half a lifetime ago.”

“Feels like it.”

Aramis nodded. He wondered if he'd wept, when he first spoke of it. “Strange to think I'd never have met you if she had lived, never been a soldier. God! That no one asked me to make that choice I am grateful.”

The big man was silent for a time. When he spoke Aramis could feel the vibrations in his chest. “You were basically a kid yourself when you joined the army,” he said at last.

“So were you,” Aramis said comfortably, melting into his side. “And didn't we feel ancient?”

Porthos grumbled agreement. “Been a bit of a day, eh? I reckon everything’ll be a mite better in the morn- _touch him and I'll kill you.”_

Porthos under his arm turned hard as granite. Aramis looked up, blinking hard at the sudden dizziness. “Well, this is mortifying.”

**

Porthos had been likened to an animal in the past. It wasn't pleasant to remember. He knew they were wrong, very clearly. If he'd been a dog he would have been _growling_ at the tiny blond Spaniard, dressed in elegant black, who stood over them. He felt Aramis, still shivering beside him, move to rise, and relax again at de Medina’s gesture, who crouched himself.

With a hand over his heart, Aramis introduced them… The Spaniard’s eyes sharpened on him. “You are Lieutenant du Vallon? I have been hearing your name a great deal, of late.”

Porthos’ chin raised belligerently, uncomfortably aware he was half out of his jacket, on the ground, clinging to his battered friend, in front of a senior officer of an enemy army. He could _feel_ Aramis grinning as his friend said, “But not from me.”

"Commander de Medina," he said mildly, "who sends other men to run his errands."

"Even so."

Aramis' eyes dropped, lifted. “I did not think to see you here."

De Medina smiled crookedly. “Fortuna’s wheel turns once again. Tonight, I am a diplomat. I hope I did not overstep with the King,” he added gravely. “You seemed in need of an alibi and the truth would have to do.”

Aramis’ voice dropped to a breath. “You wanted to hear about San Sebastian?”

“Your Captain and I have arranged to talk. Rest, Aramis.”   

He felt Aramis stir against his side again, lift, settle with a twitch of the head. “My apologies. I'll be more use to you in the morning.”

“It isn't always about use,” the Spaniard said gravely. Fingers lifted his chin and turned his head for a better look at his scarred cheek, dropped.

“I had a minor mishap on the road,” Aramis said dismissively, “it’s fine.”

“Forgive me,” said de Medina gravely, “but I gossiped with the maid after all.”

Aramis looked aghast.

“She threw a bucket at my head first.”

Aramis chuckled, his body shaking under Porthos’ arm, the shudder near hysterical. “That’s, that's Kitty the Maid for you.”

De Medina smiled slightly. Still crouching low, he touched Aramis’ wrist. “Courage,” he told Aramis.

Rising easily, he said to Porthos, “Look after him.”

_“Fuck you.”_

De Medina smiled. “It has been interesting making your acquaintance, Lieutenant du Vallon. If this war is ever over I would be interested in talking the Battle of Roncesvalles with you.”

Porthos watched him go, feeling light-headed himself. “I just back-talked the bastard brother of the King of Spain.”

“He likes you,” said Aramis, “I could see it in his eyes,” and, “Damn the man. If I have no use where can I take my clothing, hm?”

“He didn't mean it that way, even I can see that you untrusting sack of - I won't let you fall, you got that?”

**

“You have the Habsburg look,” said Athos neutrally, as they walked through the camp.

“The blood runs strong on my father's side. My mother was German,” de Medina added inconsequentially. They paced slowly down a track where supply wagons would roll, muddy and wide and empty of people. Even so, he kept his voice very soft.

“I hope your King and Council consider the terms. They are favourable to you.”

“And in turn we have to cover this up,” said Athos. “Bury our dead in hidden graves. Mourn in private, if at all. What - send the survivors to the Americas where they can't talk? You want us to eat this… monstrosity.”

“Yes,” said de Medina simply.

“You ask much.”

“We offer much in return. You will not see a better deal on the table for years, if ever.”

“The filth of politics,” Athos growled.

De Medina stopped and looked him full in the face. _“You understand.”_

“It isn't over.”

“Definitive battles are for the dead. The rest of us struggle and strive, to keep our victories and come back from our defeats. We sweat in the mud and we live. It is _never_ over.”

“This isn't _just.”_

“No.”

Athos turned away, pacing down the track in the darkness. “Aramis did not say how he made your... acquaintance.”

“A most frustrating individual.” Despite himself, Athos nodded in sympathy. De Medina waved a hand. “That moment… when you realise that almost the entirety of a year's bad luck comes from a single team of people. They cut my supply lines; they stole my payroll; they redirected my reinforcements. They _rewrote my maps,”_ he continued, with barely restrained fury. “You must have laughed, when you read his reports.”

 _“All_ the year?” asked Athos curiously.

“And I finally have one of them under my grasp and he is... kind.” De Medina shook his head ruefully.

“He brought a request for peace from the Jesuit order you said.”

“He writes,” said de Medina bitingly, “like a melancholy, convent-bred virgin. One who has been at the brandy.” Athos digested this information silently. De Medina shook his head. “And he asked me how I felt about killing, once. Was he always an adventurer?”

“He is a King's Musketeer,” said Athos simply, “from the founding of the regiment. Were you lovers?”

“Are you asking me,” said de Medina thoughtfully, “if I traded state secrets for your friend’s fair body? Or are you asking if I put a finger on my sister's lover?”

Athos froze, his heart thundering in his chest.

“It's true then.”

“I said _nothing,”_ Athos rasped, and, “How?”

“Some of the reports coming from our agent Rochefort were… highly coloured.” He glanced at Athos. “None who read them, and lives, has any interest in casting doubt on the paternity of Anna’s heirs.” He walked in silence for a time.  "I carried that girl to her christening, did you know?  Her head was bald as an egg under the lace.” He laughed silently. “I doubt she remembers a misbegotten brother, long gone to war.”

He glanced sideways at Athos, his face hard to read in the moonlight. “We are not _friends,_ Captain. We are not allies. But in this our interests align.”

_“He does not belong to you.”_

“No. In another life perhaps. I am glad we had this conversation, Captain.” Hand on his heart, he turned and bowed simply to Athos.

They turned around a corner of the track and saw a gathering of Musketeers, d'Artagnan among them, some standing, some lounging on the crates and barrels of the depot. Their fluttering capes and their numbers almost hid the centre of their gathering where two of their veterans settled on the ground, as Aramis, entirely unselfconscious, hid his face in Porthos’ arms.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I would be interested in talking the Battle of Roncesvalles with you.” - Porthos mentioned being at this plot-irrelevant battle in an earlier chapter. (Seems he did more than get burned.)
> 
> “He writes… like a melancholy, convent-bound virgin.” - slightly adapted from Giacomo Casanova’s critique of Mary of Jesus of Ágreda. To be fair, she did live in a convent. House style? 
> 
> "My mother was German" // "I carried that girl to her christening, did you know?” - details from the life of Don John of Austria, de Medina’s loose inspiration.


	23. "If it's good enough for Sir Lancelot..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand the epilogue, mostly here for continuity.

"No," said Aramis. 

"No?" said d'Artagnan, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. It was pre-dawn, and chill, and the birds cried in a fleering, provocative manner. 

"I'm not getting in the cart."

"It's a very nice cart. Look," he said brightly, "Jezebel likes the cart!"

"She _tolerates_ the cart." Aramis, swathed in a large dark cloak, crossed his arms. The little yellow horse, tethered to the back of a high-sided supply wagon, refrained from comment, as did great Jupiter where he stood stolidly hitched between the poles.

"If it's good enough for  _Sir Lancelot..."_

"Are you trying to beguile me with old literature?" D'Artagnan rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm proud of you. What other books do you like?"

"I don't; my mother liked them." Aramis raised his eyebrows with interest. D'Artagnan held back the story and noted that Aramis still hadn't moved.

Perched on the driver's bench in a heavy cloak of his own, the wide brim of his hat unneeded in the pre-dawn, Porthos conferred quietly with Athos. "We'll take the back roads," he said, "no worries. Meet at the Red Dovecote?"

Athos nodded. "The boy and I will come when we've wound up the Regiment's affairs. The responsibility will be good for him."

"I'm twenty-three," D'Artagnan informed Aramis. 

"That's very grown-up," Aramis answered. 

Athos climbed down as Porthos picked up a driver's whip. "Get in the cart," he told Aramis, who hopped up and perched on a stack of full sacks.

"Towed off with the baggage," he said mournfully. "At least it isn't... skirret." He looked down from his vantage at the Captain and said seriously, "You keep yourselves safe, you hear me?"

Athos looked at him sardonically. "We'll see you soon, brother."

Aramis' reply was broken when the cart jolted into movement. Porthos laughed softly. "Tell me about the skirret," he asked, as they wound through the early quiet of the camp.

"Ah, that's a tale and a half," he said, settling into the sacks and beginning the complicated story of the erratic Aemilio Buenrostro. They'd been stuffed with something soft, fleece perhaps, and there was a blanket striped in green and red. Presently the sun came out, bringing a last brush of summer warmth that shone bright through his eyelids as the cart swayed along.

Aramis drowsed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If it's good enough for Sir Lancelot..." - there's a fairly long sequence of Lancelot stories where he does, indeed, ride around in a cart. (It's kind of symbolic? A merchant or farmer's vehicle is a loss of status and he's kind of... in an altered state in that arc.)
> 
> I borrowed the Red Dovecote from the book, but it doesn't really matter. 
> 
> "At least it isn't... skirret." - a passing reference to "Gloom".
> 
> **
> 
> Which moves us to the inn scenes of "Half-Told Stories". I am officially done with this installment and am rewarding myself with a radio play to celebrate. Did you know Tom Burke plays Rochester in a BBC audio drama of Jane Eyre? I'm... looking forward to it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for travelling with me through this story.


End file.
